


The Gamma Contingency

by machina



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Avengers Movie Night, Avengers Tower, Battle, Blood, Breakfast, Caning, Cannibalism, Christmas, Cognitive Dissonance, Dark fic, Dissociation, Electric shocks, Everything Is Terrible And Everyone Is Evil, Extremis, F/F, F/M, First Aid, Fugitive Avengers, Gore, Grief, Guilt, Hallucinations, Human-Superhuman Conflict, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Interrogation, Kidnapping, M/M, Meta, Minor Character Death, Morality, Murder, Mutants, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Pain, Palladium Poisoning, Probably Not Any-Post-Avengers-Film Compliant, Psychosomatic Illness, References to Drug Use, References to PTSD, Revenge, SCIENCE!, Scars, Science Bromance, Self-Destruction, Team, Torture, Triggers, Trust, WIP, Waterboarding, Who Watches the Watchmen?, Whump, Winter, arc reactor trauma, injuries, mention of rape, mention of suicide, power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:39:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 82,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machina/pseuds/machina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When General Ross comes for Bruce, Tony stands in his way.</p><p>There are consequences.</p><p>(Kind-of-sort-of a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2209653">Operation Broken Eagle</a>. Based on multiple prompts from the kinkmeme; see the notes on Chapter 1 for links.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snap, Crackle, Pop

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following kinkmeme prompts: [#1](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6565.html?thread=10751397), [#2](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/9218.html?thread=20071682), [#3](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/12672.html?thread=28714624), [#4](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/12672.html?thread=29703296), [#5](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/10266.html?thread=21752602), [#6](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/16524.html?thread=36324748), [#7](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/1854.html?thread=173118), [#8](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/17385.html?thread=38749161), [#9](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19458.html?thread=45774338), [#10](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/16524.html?thread=37410188), [#11](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/10266.html?thread=21654810). Be warned, some prompts spoil the story.

"I remind you, Stark: we could have done this the easy way."

For a while, there is no sound—none but the beeping of the heart monitor, the wheeze of Ross's breath like a creaking bellows, and Tony's quiet panting. This room is small and stuffy, and Ross is standing so close they're sharing air. He's close enough that Tony could spit in his eye, if his mouth weren't parched and raw from screaming.

"Fuck you," he rasps.

"Wrong answer," says Ross, and slams the heel of his hand into Tony's nose. His head shoots back and rebounds off the tile wall. A jet of fresh blood issues, little flecks staining Ross's face, rivulets running down Tony's chin and mingling with the brown, crusted patches on his shirt. "Tell me," Ross growls, "where you hid the monster."

"Monster?" Tony laughs, or tries to. "Only monster I know—" he retches, more blood—"is right in front of me."

Ross regards him with hard eyes for a moment, then calmly says, "So be it. Remember—you chose this." He turns to the freak with the giant head, the only other person in the room, who sits in the corner amid a cluster of computer screens. "Vitals?"

"Acceptable. Another shock isn't likely to kill him."

"Do it."

It doesn't kill Tony, but it's enough to make him wish he were dead. A flash of current sizzles through his body, locking him up stiff as a corpse, airway snapping shut. His heart jumps, throws itself desperately against his ribcage again and again. The deadly shards of metal angled all around are driven to a mad, quivering dance.

The seconds stretch like days. They're burning him alive.

Fragments of thoughts rattle around in his brain as it begins to boil in its soup of cerebrospinal fluid. They come and go like a shudder of decaying celluloid, snippets of frames fading to white as flames consume the reel: thoughts of palladium and Obadiah, aliens and shawarma, and the wormhole, always the wormhole, the open, twisting mouth waiting to swallow him up. And for all the terror of the void, he wants to go back there now; he wants to die, he wants to die. Anything to stop this pain, to escape this electric heat.


	2. Moving Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time!

Steve was the first to move into the tower, after Tony had—what was the right word, caught him? Broken him?—after each of them had dug their hooks so deep into the other they could no longer come apart without their skins tearing right off. It happened little by little: a toothbrush, a razor, some clothes on a chair. Then that chair became Steve's chair, and the little guest room on the fifth floor became Steve's room, orderly and spare, with hospital corners on the bed each morning and two or three pictures on the walls.

One day Pepper came into Tony's workshop with an armful of photographs and catalogs and expenses spreadsheets and plans for the areas of the tower that hadn't yet been rebuilt: a floor for each Avenger. "Because they're moving in," she said, as though it were a perfectly obvious fact. "Look around you, Tony. All of you need each other so badly."

It was true, too. They were adrift, all of them, desperately grabbing at anything that floated by just to have something to hold. How did Pepper see these things? Tony didn't understand how, after running the company, living her own life, and protecting him from himself, she had so many fucks left to give about anyone else. But there they were, all those fucks laid out on the table in front of him, just waiting for his signature on the check.

Steve was on board with the idea. He never could let go of the idea of _team_ after the battle, after SHIELD left them out in the cold. It was a nice thought, _team_. Unity. Haven. And Tony already had one superpowered freeloader living with him; four more wouldn't make much of a difference. It wasn't like he had electricity bills to pay, after all.

So Tony signed the check and Pepper did what she did best—thinking of everything, predicting the unpredictable, and spending money that wasn't hers—and moving day came before anyone expected it. At ten in the morning Thor thundered in via helipad, swept through his floor and declared it a most wondrous abode, then went down to the kitchens to make friends with the chefs and eat everything in sight. Romanoff and Barton arrived together with black bags on rollers and coffin-sized trunks, nodded at Tony, and silently disappeared into the elevator. He didn't see them again until evening.

"No bugs," said Barton, looking genuinely surprised.

"Or very well hidden bugs," Romanoff said.

Tony could see it now, the torn-up carpeting, the holes gouged in the drywall, the furniture in pieces after an exhaustive search for hidden compartments. "This isn't SHIELD," he scoffed. "You can have as much insane Klingon sex as you want to up there. No one's watching." At this, Barton flushed red and grinned, and the corner of Romanoff's mouth twitched a little. Tony added, "but you two are locked out of my floors because I'm still not a hundred per cent sure you won't try to kill me in my sleep one day."

"Smart move," Romanoff remarked, and they left.

That was when Bruce showed up. He was carrying a seventies thrift store monstrosity of a suitcase and a single cardboard box, lurching awkwardly left and right with the weight of them as he shambled down the hall.

"The other guy is better at carrying stuff than you are," Tony joked, motioning for Bruce to place the box on the floor and then picking it up himself. Helping. That was what people did for their friends.

"He's also a lot better at destroying stuff than I am," Bruce replied. "You just rebuilt this place—give it some time before it gets blown to bits again."

"You say that like it's an inevitability."

"You say that like it's not," Bruce murmured. "Look, Tony, I—I'm grateful you're letting us stay here, but you must've realized by now: putting all six of us together like this amounts to painting a huge glowing target on your tower. The other guy is far from the only threat. Not everyone thinks of us as heroes, is what I'm trying to say."

"I know. I know each of us has enemies," Tony replied. "I say let them come. We'll crush them."

"Crush who?" Asked Steve, coming around the corner.

"Anyone and everyone who means us harm," answered Tony.

"'Us', now," Steve noted, smiling. "Looks like I'm not the only one who, what did you say yesterday? Who has a raging hard-on for the team."

"I have to protect my investment," Tony said stiffly, while Bruce made a noise like he was trying to choke down a laugh. "Come and give us a hand with this stuff," he said, passing Steve the cardboard box. "How much more is there, Bruce?"

Bruce stared at him. "More...?"

"Stuff. Your stuff," said Tony impatiently. "Did you leave it outside?"

"Oh. Uh, actually, that's it," Bruce replied. "You spend a few years on the run, you learn to travel light," he added with an uneasy shrug, and then changed the subject. "Haven't seen you in a while, Cap. How're you doing? I saw you in the paper the other day—you're with the Fire Department now?"

"Yeah, I joined a few months ago," said Steve, "and I'm in the middle of paramedic training right now, too. I've been trying to keep a low profile, but I guess the media had to find out eventually."

"What part of striding through a fire like you're Daenerys Targaryen constitutes keeping a low profile?" Tony questioned.

Steve scratched his head and muttered, "I guess I forgot regular people can't do that."

"It sure attracted a lot of attention," said Bruce. "Didn't SHIELD say they would keep you on the payroll even after they disbanded the Avengers?"

"They did, and they kept their word. I still get a check from them every month, but it's been a long time since they gave me any work to do." Steve chewed on his lip. "I couldn't take it. I can't sit here cooling my heels when so many people out there need help, you know? At least this way I'm doing _something_. It's not much, but it's something."

"It's a waste of your skills, that's what it is," Tony huffed. "And your insistence on being ordered around like any other grunt has made you an attractive poster boy for the superhero regulation lobby."

"Come on, Tony, we've been over this," said Steve. "You can call it 'being ordered around' if you want, but we can't save lives without following some kind of plan."

Tony rounded on him, gripped by an inexplicable surge of fight-or-flight, and snapped, "oh, like the Council's plan to nuke Manhattan? That was a great plan, wasn't it? Sure would have saved thousands of lives. And by saved, I mean vaporized." His breathing had quickened and his heart was racing. God damn. Wasn't it enough for the wormhole to eat his dreams and leave him shivering in the acid starlight? Asleep or awake, there was no hiding from it.

Steve tucked the box under one arm and used the other to draw Tony close, squeezing him tight as a vise, his slow breaths setting a rhythm for Tony to follow. "Okay, that was a bad plan," he conceded. "Most of ours are better thought out." His bone-crushing grip forced Tony back into his body, shutting off the ringing echoes of alarms and endless freefall. Tony focused on inhaling and exhaling in time with Steve. He was okay. He was okay.

Bruce had noticed, Tony knew. How could anyone not notice? But he was carrying on like it was no big deal because he knew the price of pride—Tony's pride. What a friend. "Steve, for what it's worth," he said, "I think it's a good thing you're doing." Before Steve could respond, Bruce continued, "but, sorry, did he say superhero regulation lobby?"

Yep. That was what he said. Funny how everyone loved the Avengers when they were fighting off Loki and the Chitauri, but now that the threat was gone people wanted the planet's saviors in cages, on leashes, sliced open on operating tables. With no monsters left but Earth's own, people turned restless and paranoid. It was natural, Tony supposed, to fear what you didn't understand; natural to fear power, especially power as great as theirs.

Natural, and pathetic.

Steve sighed. "I can't stop them. It's legal for them to use my likeness because of something I signed when I was in the army seventy years ago. It makes me mad that people think I support the cause. Every time I see one of those ads on the side of a bus, I—I kind of want to punch a hole through it," he confessed.

"Well, if you ever feel like crushing some skulls at one of those Suit Watch rallies, give me a call, because the other guy's always ready," Bruce deadpanned.

Steve paled and said, "you can't mean that," but his free hand was clenched into a fist at his side.

Tony took that hand, pried the fingers apart, and locked his own in between. A promise for later. "Come on," he said, "let's get Bruce moved in, then we can go vent your anger."

"You guys are going to spar?" Bruce asked as they got into the elevator.

Tony smiled. "Something like that."


	3. Movie Night

Friday nights soon became Avengers Movie Nights, when all of them piled into the home theater room on Clint's floor and argued over that night's selection. (Clint, not Hawkeye, and not Agent Barton; everyone was on first-name terms now, which pleased Steve. This could really work, this _team_ thing, with or without SHIELD to assemble them.)

After a few weeks, Steve insisted they come up with a voting system, and finally they managed to draw up a mutually acceptable shortlist. From there, JARVIS randomized each week's choice. Steve was enraptured by fantastic journeys, spaceship battles, and mythical worlds, he laughed uproariously at ridiculous slapstick stunts, and when he watched Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart at the piano, the memory of seeing _Casablanca_ for the first time stabbed him through the chest with longing.

He watched his teammates, too, while he watched the films. He noticed whenever Thor was sunk deep in concentration, taking in what he saw, every week forging new puzzle pieces to fit into what he knew of Earth's culture. When Clint and Natasha took each other's hands at scenes that meant something to them and only them. When Bruce melted into his soft chair, the picture of relaxation, the Hulk nowhere in sight as he soaked up what he'd missed in his years on the run. When Tony idly tossed pieces of popcorn from hand to hand, staring somewhere far away for long minutes before grabbing his tablet to jot down some new insight. When Natasha detached herself from the movie and scanned the room over and over and quietly eyed Bruce with a sullen expression, the lights and shadows of the screen dappling her curls and the hollows of her cheeks. Steve noticed everything.

Clint and Bruce struck up a rapid-fire commentary track about ten minutes into _Back to the Future_ , and by _Jurassic Park_ they had perfected their back-and-forth. Everyone had a long debate over who was and wasn't a Thing, made fun of corny special effects, sang along drunkenly (all but Steve) to musicals, sniffled at the opening sequence of _Up_ , stared slack-jawed at _Reservoir Dogs_ , and then one week JARVIS queued up _Star Trek_.

"I want to veto this," grumbled Tony as the DVD menu appeared.

"You can't, movie night is a democratic process," Clint replied.

"This is not _Star Trek_ ," Tony declared. "Why aren't we watching _The Wrath of Khan_? Or the one with the space whales?"

"I think those are in the queue somewhere," Bruce answered, "but come on, new _Star Trek_ can't be that bad. I voted yes; I want to see what they've done with it."

"I'm going to make all of you watch every single episode of _The Next Generation_ to make up for this," said Tony.

Natasha waved an impatient hand at him. "Not a movie. Doesn't count."

It was the best kind of night and maybe also the worst kind of night for movie night. Suit Watch protesters had been picketing outside the tower all day. Clint and Natasha were fresh back from a mission they refused to discuss, bruised and limping and jumping at ghosts. There had been some kind of accident in the lab that Tony and Bruce also refused to discuss. It was a testament to how tired Natasha was that she sat by Bruce for an hour without noticing the green tinge all over him. Movie night was for unwinding and there was a hell of a lot to unwind that day, but Steve, who could smell the stress radiating off of everyone, thought they should skip this week and get an early night. The others protested. This was a tradition now, and what good are traditions if you don't follow them? And so the movie started.

"Wow." Bruce took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, squinting at the screen. "It's Thor, acting captain of the USS Enterprise."

"You're right," said Clint, leaning forward in his seat, "that guy is less beefy, less hairy Thor. Hey, Thor, you're a thousand years old, right? Did you visit Earth one time and leave behind some Little Thors?"

Thor sat deep in thought. "The resemblance is quite striking, but this man cannot be a descendant of mine," he said. "I had never set foot on Midgard before my father banished me here. And I am quite certain I do not yet have any offspring, half-blooded or otherwise."

"You mean half-blooded like half you, half another species? How would that even work?" Bruce pondered. "Because equipment is one thing. Chromosomes are another."

"It is possible—if one believes hearsay on Asgard. How remarkable that our races are so similar, despite hailing from such distant stars."

Thor's lookalike didn't last long. There was a bar fight and a space shuttle, and something about time travel, and a Russian character that Natasha claimed, half-jokingly, was racist.

When the planet fell into the black hole was about when Tony began to hyperventilate.

"Tony," whispered Steve, "are you okay?"

He sat there stubbornly, trembling minutely, and grunted out, "I'm fine. Totally fine."

He drew his knees up to his chest and stared down at his tablet. The scene switched to the captain on the enemy ship and there was a close-up on some kind of alien slug. Bruce swallowed hard and got up and left without a word.

That was Tony's breaking point too. "Not fine," he gasped, tripping over himself in his haste to follow Bruce out of the room.

Thor, Natasha, and Clint all stared at Steve, waiting for an explanation. They already knew, though. He knew they knew. They just wanted him to make it okay.

"I think they needed some air," Steve sputtered. "I'm going to go outside too. You don't have to pause, just keep watching."

Emerging from the darkened theater room, the bright lights in the corridor flooded Steve's eye's for just a moment before they adjusted. He saw Bruce leaning against the wall while Tony sat on the floor with his hands cradling the back of his head, neither of them looking at each other. "Not fine," Tony repeated.

Steve crouched down beside him and said, "I know," because it was all he could say right now.

"Really not fine," Bruce confirmed, sinking to the floor. "I thought I was done with this fear."

"You're the fucking Hulk; what do you have to be afraid of?" Said Tony.

"I am _not_ the Hulk," Bruce snapped.

Tony's complete lack of an apology was preempted by Clint and Natasha tumbling into the corridor, wild-eyed, clinging together.

"So what set you off?" Tony inquired, and Natasha opened her mouth to speak.

"Don't, Tasha," Clint said quietly, "don't say the words."

She nodded, and everyone was silent. Thor stepped through the door. "Comrades," he bellowed.

"The movie got you too, Thor?" Steve asked.

"Nothing of the sort. I rather like it," Thor replied, "but movie night is far less enjoyable without your company, friends, and I am upset because all of you are upset."

"Yeah, well. Turns out new _Star Trek_ is Avenger kryptonite," said Clint, voice shaking.

"I will not pry and ask what is wrong, but know that I am your shield-brother and you may bring me your troubles at any time," Thor said solemnly. "It has been a difficult day. Let us turn in for the night. I would be amenable to watching another movie—a different movie," he quickly clarified—"tomorrow, if it suits your schedules."

"Space whales," Tony reiterated, "I don't care what anyone says, we're watching the one with the space whales."

"Seconded," said Bruce.

Natasha wrung her curls in her fingers. "Fine."

"We have our three votes," said Thor. "Goodnight, friends."

They all left, and JARVIS switched everything off. Steve didn't know it, but if he'd stayed for the rest of the film, he would have seen the screen as a mirror: a half-human who had lost everything, who couldn't go home again, who continued on, alone but not. Never mind. It was only Hollywood.

On Saturday they watched the one with the space whales, as promised. Steve couldn't make heads or tails of it; Thor was excited, and told them stories about a similar creature that lived on Asgard; and Natasha complained that this movie was even more racist than the last one. Things started going to normal, or what passed for normal among the six of them. Over time, Natasha even stopped staring at Bruce as though he were a powder keg waiting for a spark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends the flashback. Your regularly scheduled Tony whump will resume in the next chapter.


	4. Pressure

His back is on fire, all of it. Shoulders, spine, flanks, ass, the backs of his arms and legs. The cane falls indiscriminately. Vital organs? What vital organs? Ross is not an exacting interrogator.

There's a pause in the blows, and Tony hears panting from behind him. _He's old_ , Tony realizes, _he's tired_. You don't become a general without growing a few white hairs. Ross knows war, but not the way Tony knows war. It hasn't been for nothing, all those years of pointing his weapons at people who only ever asked for peace. It's anything but civil. "You're no good at this," he wheezes.

Chair legs scrape against the bare concrete floor as Ross goes to sit down. "I've dealt with a lot of people like you," he tells Tony. "You all talk sooner or later."

Tony is starting to catch his breath now. He tugs at the shackles. No give. He sees the imprint of his sweaty forehead on the slick tile in front of him, feels a wet patch in his pants. Great. He's pissed himself and he's not even ashamed about it. Maybe because he's done this before. "I spent three months in captivity in a cave in Afghanistan," he spits, "and terrorists go balls-out when they torture people! It doesn't matter what you do to me, you have nothing on the Ten Rings!" He might be lying his face off. He's gotten so good at covering fear up with bravado, he can almost fool himself. "And you know what I did to them?" Tony continues, swept up in the afterburn on his skin now, a fever of pain. "I lit them up! I turned them to ash! And I'll do the same to you, I'll get you, I'll get you too—"

This is more for his own benefit than for Ross's. He has to keep that refrain going in his mind: _I am Iron Man_. In here, without Steve and Bruce, JARVIS and Pepper, Thor and the super spies, he is nothing but the stories he tells himself, and right now he's silently spinning his own tale of survival over and over again while he glares at the wall, down there at chest level, at the blue spot that blinks Morse nonsense at him like an unseeing eye.

Tony hears Ross getting up again. "Are you threatening me?" He asks. "Sterns, do we have that on tape?"

Sterns. So that's Giant Head Guy's name. "Everything's on tape, boss," he replies.

"Good," hums Ross, "a solid leg to stand on." He circles Tony's suspended form and grabs his head by the hair, forcing Tony to look at him. "Stark, I'll tell you something classified: you and Banner and the rest of your freak show, you aren't the only game in town. We have files on all of you. There's a kid who dresses like a spider and climbs up the walls. A German man who controls metal with his mind. And when I'm through with Banner, I will hunt down every one of you abominations and put you in the ground—or in prison cells for the rest of your days."

Is he seriously—? Is he _seriously_? "You're talking about extrajudicial killing," says Tony, unwavering, "going rogue."

"Nothing rogue about it. The bill goes up in front of Congress soon." Christ, that smug look. Tony wants to suckerpunch him with a heavy repulsor glove. He hopes that isn't what his own face looks like when he has the upper hand on someone. "Now," Ross says, "tell me where Banner is, or so help me, I will end you here and now, law or no law." He smashes the cane against the wall. Tony starts despite himself.

"You're using military authority to keep me here," he says, trying to keep the stammer out of his voice. "That means you have to play by the government's rules, which means for now, you can't kill me." Please, let it be true.

Ross taps the cane on the wall, a driving staccato. The shaft is smeared with Tony's blood. "No, but a storm's coming tonight. The power could go out, the heating could break down. The heating could overload. Do you want to freeze, or bake?"

What do you know—the general does know how to fight dirty. It's time for Tony to play his trump card. "You wouldn't risk your career over it," he growls. "It's all you have left."

And that's it. That's the spot.

"How dare you!" Ross screams, and a fresh flurry of blows rains down on Tony's back. He cries out in pure agony as the cane cracks across his open wounds, knocking the air out of him and rattling his bones. It's so like and unlike what he endures at Steve's hands—but when Steve hurts him, it's a gift. It's benediction, it's clarity. This is nothing but pain, empty and featureless and awful. There's nothing Tony can do to stop it. All he can do, all he has to do, is live.

It would be so easy to give in. And what if he does talk? Where Bruce has gone, Ross will never get him. Let the bastard spin in circles and run himself into the ground with his impotent rage. But the thing is, Bruce will know Tony sold him out. Everyone will find out, and everyone will hate him, and everyone will leave. And who's to say Ross will let him go after that? He'll fry the arc reactor, close Tony's report, and file him away under 'Neutralized'.

Ross shudders like the opening peal of an earthquake, his tall, imposing frame collapsing in on itself. "Betty...my only child is gone." He drops the cane and slumps against the wall. "This would never have happened if not for Banner...!"

Tony has to take a few deep breaths before he can speak. His wounds throb, sending jolts of sense-searing pain through him with every rise and fall of his chest. "Bruce had nothing to do with anything," he pants out, "she was...probably texting...while driving. Bad...bad habit."

"It was _suicide_!" Yells Ross, slamming a fist into the wall. "She killed herself! She killed herself because...because they couldn't be together..."

"If that's true, then did you ever stop and think maybe it was your fault?" Tony goads. "You've read Romeo and Juliet. Everyone has. You know what happens when you fuck with star-crossed lovers."

"Enough!" The general roars, taking a step back. His hand shakes violently as he lifts the cane. Tony braces himself for another volley, shoulders tensing and eyes scrunching shut, but after a few long seconds all he hears is the sound of bloodstained wood clattering to the floor. "Sterns," Ross commands from somewhere behind him, "finish the job."

Tony rests his head against the tiles and tries to breathe. Boot-clad footsteps retreat, and the blast door sucks inward and clicks shut. He hears Sterns getting up from his chair, and a _slide_ as he picks the cane up off the floor. _Ka-clack_ as he sets it down on a table. "This is not an optimal use of my time," he remarks, as though he's commenting on the weather. "If he asks, tell him I beat you up good, okay?" And then _phlumph, creak_ as he goes back to his seat. _Click-click_ as he takes hold of his computer mouse again.

Is this for real? Finally, Tony has caught a break—even if, in the grand scheme of things, he's still pretty screwed. But this Sterns guy doesn't seem overly invested in Tony's suffering; he can work with that. And Ross's pressure point, he can work with that too. His poor, dead daughter. Charred to oblivion, no autopsy, a closed casket. But what really happened to Betty Ross? It was actually kind of a funny story.


	5. Space Sounds

It was three in the morning, and there was a brunette in her underwear in Tony's computer lab.

In another time, this wouldn't have been that unusual a sight (sometimes there'd be two or more, and wearing nothing at all), but things were different now. He watched her carefully through the glass doors. A hacker, a thief, an assassin? Impossible. JARVIS would have intervened—unless she'd managed to disable him. Where were her clothes, though? And what was she doing on the computer? Tony peered at the monitor in front of her. Lines of data streamed across a terminal window and fell off the top of the screen, and there was a graph in three dimensions that updated itself every second or so, mountains and valleys winking in and out of existence against a lumpy sea of background noise.

On impulse, Tony slid the door open, and the sudden noise made the intruder leap out of her seat and fall over onto the floor.

Oh. It was Jane Foster.

"Hi," said Tony.

"Hi, Tony," said Jane, looking sleepily up at him. "Um. Can I have the admin password for the computer? I want to install a thing."

"What are you doing here?"

She got up and settled in the chair again, seemingly oblivious to her lack of pants. "Oh. Well. Thor fell asleep and I had an idea all of a sudden, I had to..." she blinked slowly, trying to shake herself awake. "Before I forgot, I had to test it before I...data...simulation...recording..."

Not exactly the kind of 'here' that Tony had meant. "It's not recording," he said, pointing to the grayed out symbol on the computer screen.

"What? Oh, no, I forgot to click the button..." Jane fumbled with the mouse and managed to hit record on her third try. "I'm running a branch and bound model, looking for local minima in the...in the..." she broke off with a yawn, then looked up at him hopefully and asked, "coffee?"

She could probably use some coffee right now. Shoulders slumped, head bobbing back and forth, eyes ringed with shadows, she looked just like Tony on an inventing bender. She'd probably been obsessing for days over the thing that would become this idea, distant and distracted, adrift on her own genius, avoiding sleep and ignoring Thor and listening all night for the sound of space.

"No coffee," said Tony, and Jane frowned in disappointment. "Go to bed. Science will still be here in the morning," he entreated, feeling like the world's biggest hypocrite.

Jane's head swiveled slowly between Tony and the computer. "Yeah," she said, "sounds good. It's recording. Please don't turn it off?"

"I'll leave it alone."

"Okay. Goodnight," and she left.

A notion bubbled up from the cosmos and clawed its way through to the depths of Tony's stomach: Jane was the Tony that could have been. She was the best of him from another reality where he'd always had someone to love him and something he loved, somewhere out there in the great infinity of universes. (Bruce subscribed to the many-worlds interpretation. Tony was beginning to come around.) If she ever opened the right door, Tony might get to meet himself one day—now _there_ was a disturbing thought.

"JARVIS," Tony spoke into the air, "how long has Dr. Foster been living here with Thor?"

"Two weeks and two days, sir."

"And you didn't bother telling me?"

"I assumed you knew."

"What was she trying to install?"

"It appears to be a package of astronomical modeling software. I did inform her she would get nowhere without the password. She then wrote and compiled her own modules, but made it clear to me, repeatedly, that she would rather use the official package."

Interesting. Possibly useful. "She any good?"

"From what I saw, sir, she is very good."

"Run the usual scans," said Tony, "and go ahead and install it if it's clean." He hadn't planned on playing landlord to the Avengers and everyone they knew; then again, he'd never planned on becoming Iron Man. Sometimes things just happened. "I guess this is Jane's computer now."


	6. Snowblind

Tony holed up in his workshop until well after sunrise. Science would wait for him too, but he didn't want to wait for science. Hours of squinting at voltmeters later, he hit a wall.

"Sir," said JARVIS softly, "may I suggest you follow your own advice and take a short rest?"

Tempting. Tony glanced at the clock. Steve would be up by now, but he would happily go back to bed and let Tony lie on top of him for a few hours if he asked. But Tony didn't ask. Instead, he slammed down a quadruple espresso and went downstairs, letting himself through the double layers of (theoretically) Hulk-proof doors enclosing Bruce's labs. These doors hadn't been part of Pepper's design, but Bruce had insisted. The lockdown protocol was designed to keep the Hulk in and everyone else out.

"Bruce," Tony called out, "you here? I want to pick your brain about subdermal implants and ionic interference."

"Go to sleep, Tony," came Bruce's voice from deeper inside the lab. 

Tony headed for the source of the sound. "I got a good eight hours last night," he yelled.

"I doubt it," Bruce shouted back.

"Are you calling me a liar?" Tony asked, turning a corner to find Bruce sitting at a bench next to Clint and Natasha. "Huh. You two here for a riveting morning lecture on the ins and outs of gamma radiation?"

Clint made a face. "I'd rather have my fingernails yanked out with pliers by a psychopath."

"That can be arranged," said Natasha.

Everyone stared at her.

"What? I know a lot of psychopaths."

"Why do I even let you live here," Tony moaned. "Hey, speaking of which, did you guys know Jane Foster has been crashing on Thor's floor for the last two weeks?"

Clint raised his hand. "I knew."

"Two weeks and two days," Natasha corrected.

"I see her all the time in the lab," Bruce said.

"What, did everyone know except me?" Said Tony. "Never mind. Don't answer that. Anyway. Why _are_ Legolas and La Femme Nikita in the high-energy physics lab?"

As if in reply, Bruce's computer chirped and his sometimes-girlfriend appeared on the screen. Betsy Ross? Betty Ross? Betty, Tony was pretty sure. "Morning, Bruce," she greeted, "agents. Do we have a secure connection?"

"We do," answered Natasha. "However, Tony Stark is here."

"What?"

"If you like, I can deliver a kick to the head that'll make him forget he ever saw this," Natasha added casually.

"Hey, no! No kicking!" Tony protested. "Do we have to solve _everything_ with violence?"

"No, it's all right," said Betty. "Maybe he can help."

"Help with what? What's going on?" Tony demanded. "Why are we having a video conference with your girlfriend and the super spies? Is Betty secretly an undercover agent or something?"

"No, no, it's—" Bruce took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, sit down, okay? Just sit down and be quiet for a while."

"You're asking a lot of me," Tony grumbled, but he pulled up a chair. "Hi," he said to the camera.

Betty's eyes flickered as she scanned his face. "Bruce, is he—can we trust him?"

"He's my best friend," Bruce said firmly, and Tony's whole body tingled as he heard those words. Why was it doing that? "If I can't trust Tony, I can't trust anyone."

"Dr. Ross," Clint prompted, "have you made a decision?"

She took a big breath and blew it out, closing her eyes and opening them to look straight at Bruce. Such clear eyes, even on the grainy video feed. "Yes. I've had enough. I'm going to do it."

"Do what?" Asked Tony, bewildered. "Will someone explain what's happening?"

Betty focused those clear eyes on him. "Tony Stark," she said, "you know a thing or two about captivity, don't you?"

"Do I ever," Tony mumbled. "Why, are you planning a trip someplace that's crawling with murderous terrorists? Because I really, really don't recommend that."

"You can make light of it," said Betty. "Maybe someday I will too."

"Tony, it's her father," Bruce said slowly.

"My apartment is bugged," Betty explained, "my car bugged, my office and the lab where I work are bugged. There's a white van parked across the street all day. My phone's location service activates by itself every hour. Everything I say and do, wherever I go, someone is watching me and reporting back to my father." She looked at Bruce, and her breath hitched. "He's so afraid I'll go back to you."

"So, not exactly a cave in Afghanistan, then," Tony quipped.

Bruce glared at him and hissed, " _Tony_."

But Betty threw up a harsh, bitter laugh. "No, I can't say it is. Still, a cage is a cage."

"That's no way to live," Clint lamented, "even if he thinks he's doing the right thing, protecting you."

"Love makes people sick," commented Natasha.

Betty sighed. "That's exactly it. When I ask him to stop, it's all fists on the table and he goes, 'I love you and I have to keep you safe, you're my only family now'—love is the word he uses to shut me down." Below the frame of the video, she tugged at something on her throat. Looked like a necklace. "This is the way things are now. It wouldn't matter if I married someone else today and if I promised him I'd never see you again, never even think of you again. It won't stop until you're dead, or I'm dead."

"So what are you going to do?" Tony asked, even though he already knew.

Bruce tilted his head to Clint and Natasha. "These guys are going to do us a favor," he said.

"Only if you promise to never hulk out on me again while we're trapped on the Helicarrier while under attack by an army of brainwashed goons," Natasha reminded him. She glanced quickly at Clint. "No offense, honey."

"None taken, little red."

Twisting his lips in what could have been a smile, Bruce replied, "I'll get in the glass cage and eject myself as soon as I feel him taking over."

"Yeah, no," Tony breathed, "I don't think SHIELD's in any hurry to invite us back on there."

"Probably not," Clint agreed.

"We've done the legwork," Natasha stated. "I've swept her vehicle and her home, but General Ross will plant new listening devices eventually."

"Your new apartment's secured, Dr. Ross," said Clint. "But it's, uh, kind of a dump. A meth lab blew up in the same building last week."

"We'll make it work," said Betty. "Really, agents, I can't thank you enough for—"

"Wait," Tony interrupted, "Bruce, you were going to move out and not tell me?"

Bruce just shrugged helplessly.

"No one tells me anything around here," Tony complained.

"To be honest," Bruce said, "I was kind of afraid of what would happen if you knew."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "Go on."

Betty looked like she wanted to say something, but stopped herself. She watched Bruce carefully through the lens of her webcam as he cracked his knuckles distractedly, took off his glasses, and cleaned them with his shirt. "It's just," he began, "you and General Ross have a history, don't you? Not personally. At least, I hope not. But business-wise, with Stark Industries. I know he used to be one of your major clients."

"So, what, one time I gave him some weapons and he gave me some money and now we're best friends who tell each other all our secrets?" If Tony sounded offended, he was. Where was this coming from?

"They weren't just any weapons," said Bruce, "they were sonic cannons, designed to disable m—disable the Hulk."

"Wow," Clint mumbled, "awkward."

"Are you fucking kidding me? What do you think the weapons business is about, rainbows and puppies? They didn't call me the Merchant of Death for nothing," Tony ranted. "Yes, I designed and built those sonic cannons. Yes, I knew what they were for, and no, I didn't care. It wasn't my job to care, it was my job to deliver death to the highest bidder, kind of like what these two do now—" he jerked his thumb at Natasha and Clint—"but come on. That was the past."

Bruce forged on. "You did what was good for your bottom line."

"Bruce. Fuck's sake, _Bruce_. Do you really think I'd sell you out to Ross or anyone else? Didn't you just say you _trusted_ me?" He was tingling again, a different kind of tingling. Red and serrated, like insects gnawing at the marrow in his bones.

"Trust is a, a complicated thing," Bruce tried.

"You're being paranoid," Tony accused.

"Stop it, Tony," Natasha snapped.

"I'm not talking about money now," said Bruce. "Ross has a lot of clout in the military and the government. What if they dragged you to another hearing and used the suit as leverage? When you're under the gun, I mean, we both know if it came to that, if you had to choose between me and you, your _identity_ —it wouldn't be a hard choice."

He was right. It wouldn't. But. "There's always a third option. Cut the wire and all that."

Shaking his head, Bruce replied, "no, don't you get it? Keeping you in the dark _was_ the third option. If you didn't know my whereabouts, you couldn't tell him anything."

That had to be the least logical thing Tony had ever heard. "Yeah, but if I did know your whereabouts, I could show up with the cavalry in tow and solve your problem once and for all with a repulsor blast to the face," he pointed out.

"Oh, no," said Bruce with a feral grimace, "I call dibs on Ross. The Other Guy's just dying to squash him like a bug."

And just like that, they'd forgotten Betty was still there. Bruce gaped at the screen, mortified and stammering, but Betty's jaw was set and her eyes were steel. "You don't have to apologize," she said, "sometimes I feel the same way."

"Great, you're happy, I'm happy, everyone's happy, everything's settled," Tony announced. "And why are we wasting time on hypothetical situations anyway? Let's talk about now." He pointed his finger at Bruce. "You're not leaving."

Bruce's eyes lit up, no green. "You mean—?"

"Yeah. Bring Betty to the tower."

"Really?"

"Sure. There are spare rooms everywhere. Foster's here, Pepper sleeps in her guest suite five nights a week, I'm basically running a maximum security Avengers zoo at this point. Not exactly what I signed up for, but." Tony shrugged. "Besides, if you leave, who's going to help me wrangle differential equations in the middle of the night? Don't get me wrong, JARVIS is a genius just like his creator, but sometimes I need another human brain." He reached out to grab Bruce's shoulder. "Come on—we're in this together."

Natasha regarded them with a bemused smile on her face. "That's a nice sentiment, Tony, but right now Clint and I have an operation to complete, so if you could refrain from making everything about you for five minutes while we talk strategy, that would be wonderful."

Betty spoke up. "I remember the plan. Have you made any changes?"

"None," Natasha answered, "everything is in place."

"We're ready to deploy," said Clint. "When will you pull the trigger?"

"Today," Betty said firmly.

The plan, as it turned out, was a stolen cadaver and a road in the Bronx that turned into a death trap when it iced over on wet, freezing days like today. Clint drove and Natasha planted the body. They stuffed the real Betty Ross into their trunk and floored it all the way back to the tower, leaving the wreckage to steam and smother in the soft, sleeting rain.

Bruce waited with Tony in the garage, and he didn't wait for the engine to shut off before wrenching the trunk open. Betty climbed out and fell into his arms.

"Betty. Betty, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she murmured. "Everything went the way we planned. Bruce...it feels so good to hold you again, after all this time. I feel like I've been in chains for so long, I'd forgotten the weight of them, and now they're gone, I'm floating."

"I know. I mean, me too." He buried his face in her hair.

Natasha got out of the car and cracked her knuckles, allowing herself a broad smile of satisfaction. "It went perfectly," she said to no one in particular.

"Couldn't have asked for a smoother execution," Clint corroborated as he closed the door on the driver's side. "No witnesses, no surprises. We did it, Tasha."

"Dr. Ross," said Natasha, "we need to brief you on a few more matters tomorrow. In the meantime, we'll monitor the fallout of your...accident...and report anything important."

"Thank you," Betty whispered. "I really, I can't thank you enough for what you've done. Please, if there's anything, _anything_ I can do to repay you—"

"Nothing," Natasha stated. "Consider it a favor to a friend."

Clint took Natasha's hand. "Post-mission drinks?"

"Oh, yes."

Peering over Bruce's shoulder, stroking his hair, Betty watched them go. They came apart, and she looked at Tony. "I have to thank you, too," she said. "For keeping our secret, and for sharing your home with me. Oh, god, I was so scared about going to live next to a meth lab."

"Former meth lab," said Tony, "it exploded, remember?"

She began to shake and sniff, and in moments her face was red and wet, a lifetime of tears flooding down her cheeks. What happened? Had Tony said something wrong?

"Can I hug you?" Betty asked him suddenly, through sobs.

"Um," Tony said. Even on the best of days, he didn't enjoy being crash-tackled by weepy biologists. He looked at Bruce, who, despite his wide grin, was starting to fall apart too. "Tell you what. You stay there, I'll hug you."

He went over and put his arms around her. It was intensely awkward. She buckled at the knees and softened against him and cried and cried, salt tears soaking his shirt and evaporating slowly into the chill air.

The police found the crash site within the hour, and a crew came to clear the area and tow away the wreck. They checked the plates and identified the body and called the next of kin. There weren't many people at the funeral: General Ross, of course, and a few of Betty's friends and colleagues from work. Bruce wasn't invited, and there were guards with embarrassingly useless tranquilizer guns stationed around the perimeter to make sure he knew that.

Winter bore down on the Avengers Tower. The cold drove the protesters away and left an odd silence behind. Sometimes Tony would pass by a doorway and see a few of the others huddled together, sharing their warmth; not everyone had Thor's natural armor, Steve's resistance to extreme temperatures, or Clint's trained endurance. As a howling wind battered the windows, Tony remembered his offhand comment from the morning of Betty's accident—something about maximum security. It was a promise he had to keep, now more than ever.


	7. Water, Water, Every Where

This room has no windows, no clocks. He's lost track of how long he's been here. Has it been days, weeks, months? Why hasn't anyone come for him? Do they all think he died in the blast? Are they moving on? Pepper must have taken over the tower, running things with her usual frightening efficiency. Clint and Natasha probably went back to SHIELD after the fight. Does Bruce, at least, miss him? Tony hopes someone does. And Steve—oh, Steve. The things he's done to Steve. Maybe he's secretly happy Tony's gone.

When his captors first brought him here, they started with sleep deprivation and loud music, which didn't go so well. Tony laughed in their faces. _Why did I do that? Stupid, stupid._ He should have faked it, should have made a show of groaning and plugging his ears, should have let them think they were breaking him down. Maybe if he had, they wouldn't have moved on to crowbars. Electric shocks. Canes.

Today is different. Today he's bound to a board with a damp rag over his face, and he has a feeling things are about to get a lot worse.

He hears it split seconds before he starts to feel it. The dread that fills that tiny dividing moment grips his entire body, sending what's left of his heart plummeting gutward. Then comes the water, _trickle-splash_ , and the futile clamping of his throat around the precious air he's just gulped in. Tony holds it for as long as he can, but he's human, after all, and he has to breathe. The slow fire creeping up his lungs reminds him of that. His lips part, searching for wisps of air in pockets between the saturated cloth and his skin. Immediately, he gags. No air. None at all. His pulse rockets, that useless heart of his thumps faster and faster, and he feels the arc reactor rattling in its casing. Second by second he grows more desperate for air as an evil fog of carbon dioxide screams in his chest and up to the roof of his mouth, turning to acid when it hits the water, water, so much water. It's in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, _everywhere_.

The fact that he's done this before, in a way, is no comfort. The memory is so raw and real, and fuck, it's coming back to him now. Why _now_? Why can't his brain simply delete all the horrors he's seen, or at least not bring them up at the times when the last thing he needs is to relive them? There's a dark, dusty cave, the clank of Kalashnikovs, his wrists twisting at unnatural angles behind his back, hairs tearing loose as his head is forced into a tank of murky water again and again—this way, Ross's way, with the cloth and the dripping, is kinder, cleaner, more civilized, and that's precisely why it feels so savage. That's why it hurts so much.

 _Help me,_ Tony howls desperately in his mind. _I'm here. I'm alive. Come take me away from this._

Suddenly the cloth is lifted away. The glaring ceiling lights sear shapes of haloes into his retinas. Ross's ugly face looms above him, dark and blurred. Tony greedily sucks in air like these are the last breaths he'll ever take.

"Talk," Ross orders. He sounds far away.

He will. He's so ready. He'll tell him everything. Tony opens his mouth, but his voice has drowned somewhere down in his swollen, distended stomach, and all he can do is retch and cough up endless mouthfuls of water laced with spit and bile. With a shadow of a smirk, Ross slaps the rag over his eyes again and pulls it slowly down over his face. Oh no, no, no, not again, please, he'll do anything, he'll say anything—

It starts again, the dripping. Tony starts to shiver uncontrollably with pure panic. Every muscle in his body seizes up and his healing lacerations pulse and throb as he thrashes against his restraints, sending several of the attached electrodes flying. He whips his head wildly from left to right as far as he can, which isn't far. A sharp pain in his neck tells him he's just pulled something, but he barely feels it. It's all static against the torturous roaring between his ears, like shouting into a waterfall. Holy fuck, this is it. He's going to die here.

 _They've abandoned me._ The thought erupts in a flash of despair. All those months of playing house with aliens and accidents of science and lunatics for hire, all those promises of _team_ , all for nothing. No one cares about him. If they did, they would have rescued him by now. Wouldn't they?

The sopping rag slides up his face again. Oh fuck yes, air. He gulps at it, but his chest won't rise as far as he needs it to, and the water he's swallowed isn't leaving any room for his diaphragm to expand. Little breaths are all he gets, quick little breaths like a rabbit dashing out from under the shadow of a hawk, quicker and quicker and quicker and quicker...

"Damn it, Sterns, what is that beeping?" Ross snarls. If he sounded a football field away before, he's in the next county now.

"He has a lot of water in his chest cavity," Sterns mumbles. "I think he's about to short out."

 _They're talking about me like I'm a cheap toaster_ , Tony's delirious mind sputters. _Damn it, I'm not a toaster, I'm fucking Iron Man, I'm Iron Man, I am Iron Man._ The thought plays on repeat until his world goes black.


	8. Visits

"...Stark, are you awake? Come on, Stark, talk to me."

"I won't talk," Tony mumbles, "I'll never talk..."

"It's okay. We're in SHIELD medical. Everything's okay now."

Wait a second. Tony knows that voice. He opens his eyes and yes, there's Phil Coulson standing at the foot of his bed, suited up and looking sharp. So he's alive again. That's nice.

"Steve," croaks Tony weakly, trying to sit up, "where's Steve?"

"Hey, slowly," says Phil, "take it easy. The doctors said you shouldn't be up and about yet. They kept you in an induced coma for three days to help your body recover."

"Three _days_?"

"It was bad," is all Phil can say. "Captain Rogers has visited you every day, sitting by your side for hours. He's due in a few minutes."

A profound sense of relief washes over Tony as he lies back down and breathes. Christ, It feels so good to breathe. He's back now. It's over. And nothing hurts; they must be pumping him full of the good drugs. A little worm dances the back of his mind to the tune of _how did I get here_ , but Tony stops paying attention to it as Steve bursts through the door in full Captain America gear, cowl and all. "Tony, you're awake!"

_How did I get here?_

He shakes it off. "Agent. Phil. Could you leave us alone for a minute?"

Phil smiles, bows, and glides away, smooth as a ghost.

The hospital bed and its crisp white sheets make no sound as Steve sits down and settles himself next to Tony. He's warm. "I guess you're wondering how you got here," he says.

"Did you acquire telepathic powers while I was gone?"

Steve's eyes crinkle under the mask. "It wasn't easy locating you," he tells Tony, "but we never gave up. Tony, we'll never give up on you." He extends a tentative hand to touch Tony's chest, fingers brushing over bandages and gauze, up and around his neck, down to his back.

Tony shudders. "Steve..."

He draws his hand back. "No. I know what you're going to ask me for, but no. I can't do that."

Tony jolts upright, ignoring the tight, pulling feeling that jabs at his chest near the reactor. "Why not?" He demands, glaring at Steve's big blue head. Why is he wearing his suit? What's he hiding under his cowl? _How did I get here?_

"You're fragile," Steve says, standing up and crossing his arms, "General Ross broke you. He hurt you. And I can't do that, I can't do the things I used to do to you now, knowing that." He turns his broad back to Tony, who stretches out to touch him. He can't reach, and his fingers twitch uselessly in the air. "I've caused you so much pain, but now I'll never hurt you again," Steve declares.

"What are you talking about? Steve, come on, snap out of it," Tony pleads, "you know what I need. Please. Bring me home and take me apart with your hands and teeth. If he broke me, then you have to erase him. Break me all over again, break me better."

Steve turns around and gives him a pitying look. "No."

Tony feels like his heart could stop in spite of the array of machines he's hooked up to, forcing it to carry on pumping like a dead thing twitching in a current. This isn't how this reunion was supposed to go. He's still struggling for words when Natasha abruptly breezes into the room wearing a pastel pink apron and oven mitts and carrying a steaming tray of something.

"Welcome back, Tony! I baked cookies!" She trills, setting the tray down on a nightstand. Tony eyes the rows upon orderly rows of perfect, huge, round cookies, and wow, they look tasty. But wait a minute, why are there cookies? There's something important he should be remembering, something like _how did I get here_ , and that's it! He remembers now, Natasha doesn't bake, she doesn't know her soufflé from her crème anglaise, so why are there cookies?

He looks up at Natasha for answers and catches an ice blue flare in her eyes as Loki's image engulfs hers, swift and terrible as a python's jaw. Oh, hell. If Tony had the strength to jump out of the bed and run away screaming right now, he would. What the fuck is happening?

The golden horns glimmer as Loki cocks his head at Tony. "It isn't for me to explain," he drawls. What, did Tony just ask that out loud? "Yes, you did," Loki replies. "My, my. This is quite the predicament, metal man."

"You," Tony growls, "did you do this? Did you bring me here? Why did Steve—what have you done to _Steve_?"

"None of that was my doing," Loki sneers. "You should have known he would tire of you eventually. How could a man like you ever keep a man like him? So strong, so perfect, so beautiful. And you, what are you?" He draws his cloak across his face like a Hollywood vampire, and when he pulls it back, Tony's looking at himself in bespoke Givenchy, coiffed and ready to face an armada of flashbulbs. "Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist?" Suggests not-Tony, before the designer sloughs off and the Mark VII armor assembles. "Iron Man, savior of Midgard?" And then he's Loki again. "Or perhaps...you are me. You are just like me, you liar, you deceiver, you destroyer."

Shit. Tony knows what this is: he's died and gone to hell. This isn't reality, because Phil Coulson is dead, isn't he? But then again, if this is hell, where is Obadiah? Where are those Ten Rings terrorists, and where's General Ross? They could be somewhere else, he supposes. Hell is a big place. The devils probably had to cut Tony to pieces and scatter him all around, a different circle for each of his sins.

Loki holds his scepter out. Light ripples at its jeweled tip. "Follow me, metal man. I will bring you to the place where you belong." His gaze never breaks. And what's that? A smudge of black in midair emanating from the scepter, breathing gently like a sleeping animal, growing with every inhalation. Are those stars, those little white pinpricks? Is that a galaxy in there?

A blob of pseudopod reaches out to touch his cheek, and it freezes him to the bone. It's a wormhole. _The_ wormhole. Oh, fuck, it has tendrils now and it's poking at him, it's crawling all over his skin, and it's cold, so cold. Something's wrong. _How did I get here?_ Why does his mouth taste like coconut? Why are the walls waving like the sea, why is the sheet coiling and rearing up and aiming for his throat?

With a gasp, Tony slams back into his body, back to the bunker with the tiled walls, the chains, the heart monitor, and the concrete floor. His chest seizes and his eyes dart around wildly as he takes in the surroundings. Pain, old and new, sinks deep into his bones. He tries to remember how to breathe.

It wasn't real. No one came.

He's never getting out of here.


	9. Christmas

The tower emptied out over the holiday season. Mid-December saw Clint packing his bags for a month-long mission in Cambodia. Jane went home and brought Thor to meet her parents, and Steve spent New Year's in Malibu with Tony. Natasha had business to attend to in Switzerland, which left JARVIS, Bruce, and Betty to hold down the fort for a while. All in all, that meant Christmas in the Avengers Tower was postponed until the start of February.

It snowed that day, and the sidewalks were all slush. Every room in the tower shone with strings of lights and tinsel. Candles glowed, fireplaces crackled, and a majestic pine glittered in the lobby, droplets of crystal hanging from its boughs and mountains of presents strewn round its trunk. This was Steve's first Christmas out of the ice, and his serum-strong lungs drew in crisp air that was heavy with cinnamon and spices.

He used to dread winter; he'd spend weeks laid up sick in bed every year, and his threadbare coats and hats never did much to keep the cold out. His mother did her best with the money she had, but after his father blew his brains out with his service revolver on Steve's fifth Christmas, things always came down to either food or warmth, never both. Love, though—his mother had plenty of that to give, even towards the end while she slowly drowned.

Bucky was the only thing he had left after that, although Steve had been Bucky's 'only' for a good few years already. They were nothing but a pair of orphans with lifetimes of love still swelling in their chests, passing the hungry seasons with gentle kisses and gentler sex. When the Depression ended and they found jobs that were something resembling steady, they finally had enough money for things like Christmas gifts, the pictures, and trips to Coney Island. Bucky made a warm bed in winter, shedding his generous heat like a furnace, but Steve always thought summer was when he was at his best, all tanned and sweating and muscled like a thoroughbred.

That was the old world. The old world was gone.

Today was today, and tonight was the party. It was a modest affair compared to the parties Tony usually threw, with no bands, no dancers or strippers, and no media throng. The hosts and guests were their own security. Pepper came, of course, as well as Tony's friends Colonel Rhodes and Happy Hogan, and Jane invited her old coworkers Darcy Lewis and Erik Selvig. Thor's friends from Asgard would have been there too if not for the broken dimensional bridge. The tower's kitchens rolled out a mouthwatering banquet, and it wasn't long before Steve lost count of the ridiculous, extravagant, decadent creations that his past self thought he'd never see in real life, much less get to taste. Shreds of gift wrap and ribbons littered the tables, the wine flowed like water, and everyone ate and drank and talked and listened and laughed and cried a little.

Steve's enhanced hearing caught snippets of the conversations buzzing all around him. A ways down the table, Tony inserted himself between Betty and Bruce, intercepting a sloppy kiss. "Not bad! You two have been practicing, huh?" He grinned.

Bruce chuckled and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You taste like vodka."

"I'm top shelf vodka!" Tony proclaimed. He turned and squinted at Betty, making a photo frame with his hands and holding it up to her face. "Betsy, Betsy. Did I ever tell you how much you remind me of one of my ex-girlfriends?"

"By ex-girlfriends, he means one-night stands," Bruce added helpfully.

"You look just like her," Tony continued, ignoring Bruce, "she was a botanist. Set a lot of plants on fire."

Betty's eyes widened. "You dated Maya Hansen?" She replied, louder than necessary. Betty Ross, as Steve had learned, was a louder drunk than Thor.

"How'd you know her name? Hey, why do you sound so surprised?" Tony asked.

"Oh, no, I didn't mean it like that," Betty yelled. "It's just, you're so, and she's so..." she waved her glass around, sloshing Cabernet onto the tablecloth, and gesticulated with her free hand for a while before giving up. "No, but I remember Maya Hansen from a conference. She was presenting and her potted fig tree exploded." She made a _kaboom_ sound effect and mimed a mushroom cloud with her hands.

"Yep," said Tony, "sounds like Maya."

"She's the biggest name in exploding plants. No, but seriously, her work, it's a really great idea," Betty shouted. "It could change the world if she finds out how to fix the overheating problem."

"I helped," Tony slurred, "I think?"

"With which part? Stress relief? Endorphin release? I'm sure you did," said Betty, lifting her glass to her lips with a suggestive smile. She reached for another bottle.

On the other end of the table, Natasha screamed something in Norwegian and smashed a plate over her head. Jane, Thor, Darcy, and Selvig clapped and cheered. Steve could hear Clint telling Pepper and Happy they had to come to movie night sometime. He watched Clint pluck a red-and-green streamer from the wall behind him and wrap it around his neck like a garland.

"You've been pretty quiet tonight, Captain," said Rhodes, sliding into one of the empty chairs beside Steve.

"I'm just reminiscing," Steve replied with a faint smile.

"Things have changed, haven't they?" Rhodes remarked. "And I'm just talking the last three, four years. Seventy years is something else."

He had no idea. "SHIELD," Steve said, apropos of nothing, "when they found me, when I woke up, they had me in this room with a radio, trying to make out like it was still the forties." He let that hang in the air for a second.

"How long did they think _that_ was going to last?" Rhodes laughed. "From what Tony's told me, half-baked plans are like SHIELD's specialty. And they dropped you guys like hot potatoes without even saying, hey, thanks for saving the world." He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of turkey. "I want to ask you a question, Cap. You ever thought about going back to the army?"

Steve shifted in his seat. "Yeah, I did. Early on, after Manhattan. I had this feeling of—well—I'll tell you what it was like for me, all right? First I stormed an enemy base with my commando unit and crashed a plane into the sea. Then I defended a flying fortress and fought off an army of giant aliens. For everyone else, those things happened decades apart, but for me, it was one night. I left this world in battle and I was reborn into battle, and in my mind, I wasn't a person anymore; I was a soldier looking for the next fight." He sighed. "That's—I guess that was me trying to simplify things, pack them down, make the world easier to understand. I was looking for something familiar, something I could hold on to."

"What changed?" Asked Rhodes, voice low.

"Oh. Well, uh. Tony."

Rhodes smirked. "Really? Dating _Tony Stark_ fixed your ice-cold crazy? I assumed he'd just make it worse."

Steve winced imperceptibly at the word _fixed_. The echo in his head insisted _I wasn't broken_. "I mean," he said, "I knew there was more to it, I knew enlisting again wouldn't magically solve everything. That's why I never went ahead and did it. But I just, at the back of my mind, I knew I wanted to do something good for the world. I couldn't sit around doing nothing. And when Tony, uh, happened, it gave me time to step back and open my eyes a little more. I read about the wars," he explained, "and I spoke to people who were there. They colored in the outlines; the picture was bigger than I thought. There was 1943 and there's now, and I looked at that picture and decided I don't feel great about putting on a helmet to carry out someone else's agenda." He remembered who he was talking to and hastily added, "please don't take that the wrong way, Colonel."

"Hey, I'm only mad that you keep calling me Colonel. Come on, Cap, call me James. Or Rhodey, Rhodey works too."

"In that case, you have to call me Steve."

"Deal!" Rhodey grabbed his hand and shook it enthusiastically. He leaned back in his chair. "So, you and Tony, how long's it been now?"

"About six months, I guess." It wasn't easy to pin down a starting date, the way it had happened.

Rhodey whistled. "Wow. That's got to be a record for him." He eyed Steve carefully. "But...how? How'd it start?"

Not the way Steve would have ever expected. Not the way he would have wanted, that furious rhythm of strike, recoil, strike. "It's a long story," he said vaguely, trying to think of a way to change the subject.

To his relief, Rhodey began to veer in a different direction. "That's new. With Tony, it's always a short story, it's always the same story. You're good for him, man, I think you're really good for him," he rambled. "I can tell he's different. You make him more, what's the word? I'm no words with drunk when I'm good. You know what, you and I didn't get a chance to talk much when you came out to the west coast for New Year's. And I'm so happy I'm here for your Avengers Christmas, because I'm getting to know you! And you're great!" He planted a wobbly finger in the center of Steve's chest to prove his point. "I've known Tony for almost twenty years. I've seen him at his best and his worst. You know he left me hanging at an awards show one time? And another time I had to put on his old suit to stop him destroying his house with his new suit? He's like two sides of a coin. Good Tony, Bad Tony. Now he's with you, he's Good Tony."

Steve started to choke up a bit. Even if it was partly the spiced wine talking, hearing something like that from Tony's oldest friend lifted his heart. "I hope he stays that way," he said.

"But," continued Rhodey, brow furrowing, "you have to know. On the outside Tony's Iron Man, but on the inside he's, I don't know, Glass Man. Paper Man. He's easily hurt, know what I'm saying? And I'm his friend. I've got to watch his back. If you hurt him," his voice dropped to a whisper, "I'll drop a nuke on you."

What was Steve supposed to say to _that_? "That ship has sailed," he blurted out, because apparently tonight was a night for bare-knuckle honesty.

Rhodey's mouth hung open. "What?"

"Physically," Steve was quick to add, "only ever physically." Oh, this was going well. Rhodey was about to learn more about his and Tony's private life than he ever wanted to know. "He—he likes it," Steve stammered. "He asks me for it, tells me what he wants me to do. It hurts him worse if I say no." He was being horribly inarticulate about this, and he knew it. "He says he needs it." Now he felt like he was making excuses.

All Rhodey said was, "oh." He stared into the centerpiece in front of him, gold candles encircled by pine cones and holly sprigs dusted with fake snow. Looked up at Steve. "Wow. I just remembered the time in college when I walked in on him with a girl in our dorm room and there was blood goddamn _everywhere_." The candle flames danced in his exhalation. "Makes a lot more sense now. He walked around in this stupid daze for the next couple days, and I just assumed, you know—" he mimed a smoking motion with his hands.

Steve knew exactly the daze Rhodey was describing. "It's like that sometimes. I think it's the closest he gets to peace."

Rhodey shook his head and laughed softly. "You know what else I just remembered? They were in _my_ bed, because Tony broke his the night before with a varsity linebacker."

Cringing in sympathy, Steve replied, "that's—I'm not surprised to hear that."

"Rhodey! Hey, Rhodey!" Yelled Tony from where he remained parked between Bruce and a now-unconscious Betty. "Come over here, will you? Oh, look at that, my friend and my boyfriend are bonding. Military pals!" He burbled, watching Steve and Rhodey take their seats opposite him. "Okay, here's what's going on. I want to tell Bruce what really happened with the Iron Monger. But, but, I can't remember right now."

"Not much to tell," said Rhodey, "the cover story's bullshit, the Iron Monger was Stane, did you at least remember that part?"

"Yeah, I got that part," Bruce confirmed. "And I got the part where Stane hired the Ten Rings to kill him. Tony, that's so fucked up. Why does everyone want to kill you? I want to study you. I want to study your preternatural villain magnetism."

Steve listened to their exchange intently. Rhodey's version of events matched what Tony had told him months before, when they first exchanged hurts and old wounds. He'd told Steve a lot of lies, but it seemed the Iron Monger story hadn't been one of them.

"There's more," Tony insisted, fiddling with a candy wrapper, "something important is missing."

"The part where I crashed a car into him?" Asked Rhodey.

"The part where I was the one who killed him for real?" Asked Pepper, waltzing easily into the conversation. Steve's expression must have given away his shock, prompting Pepper to add, "not, like, with my bare hands or anything. Actually, all I did was hit a switch."

"Pepper, don't play it down like that," said Rhodey. "Tony would've been done for if you weren't there. You saved his life."

"I save his life on a daily basis," Pepper replied evenly, "and luckily, it doesn't always involve risking my own while broken glass rains down on me."

Tony sat up. "Broken glass! That's why I broke the glass!" He exclaimed triumphantly, and was met with four confused faces. "Because Obie ambushed me in my living room, disabled me with the stun wand I invented, and yanked my arc reactor out of my chest." He reached a hand up to grab the casing through his shirt, as though reassuring himself it was still there, and whispered, "that's the missing piece."

Pepper gaped at him, saucer-eyed. "But—but you need that to _live_."

"That was more or less the point," said Tony.

"Son of a bitch," Rhodey muttered.

"I thought you hated it," Pepper whimpered as her eyes bloomed red and began to shine, "I thought you threw it out."

"You saved my life twice that day." Tony gathered a handful of confetti and blew, stirring up a tiny storm, slivers of foil and paper fluttering and glinting the candlelight. "Now you know. Surprise! It's a Christmas miracle."

Bruce held his head in his hands, face turned down, elbows braced on the table. Bits of confetti drifted down and landed in his hair. "You should have said something," he mumbled, echoed by Steve and Rhodey.

Pepper leaned over and grabbed Tony's face in both hands. "For the love of all that is holy, Tony, if anything like that ever happens again, _please_ don't wait a year before telling anyone about it." She shook him with all her might. " _Promise_ me." After he gave a limp nod, Pepper stood up and began to teeter, grabbing the back of her chair to steady herself. "Jesus. I'm going to bed."

Some time later, Betty woke up and retreated with Bruce back to their floor. Tony and Rhodey joined the others who were left in a shambling, improvised Christmas choir led by Darcy, who had climbed on a table and was waving a dessert spoon like a conductor's wand. JARVIS, always listening, piped in a piano accompaniment, and Thor, who clearly had no idea of the words, made up his own. The room resonated with drunken, discordant song. As they plunged deeper into the night, the candles burned down to waxy stubs, and flurries of late snow fell in soft tufts outside.


	10. In Your Heart Shall Burn

Steve woke to a clear blue morning, one that felt lighter than most. Peering out the picture window, he saw a world suffused with a dazzling sunlight; the pillars of the tower were drenched in it, and the roads and cars beneath wore a perfect coat of last night's snow. Inside, the dining rooms and hallways were pristine, the remains of the night swept up and carted away by cleaning crews and robots.

"Someone, please," Bruce groaned, "draw the blinds—the _light_ —"

"The light is beautiful. Get enough coffee in you and you'll see," said Tony, who was now on his third cup. " _Carpe diem_. Hey, I have an hour until my meeting. I want to spar. Anyone feel like going a few rounds in the ring? No, not you two. I want a fair fight. Where's Happy when you need him?" His words fell like an avalanche. Steve took a box of cereal from the shelf and reached over to lower the blinds halfway.

"I saw how much you drank last night," grumbled Bruce, "you have no right to be this chipper."

"I switched reactors after everyone called it quits. Good old ion filter." Tony tapped his chest.

Bruce lifted his head. "Wasn't that what was causing the interference in your neural impulse interface? Which, can I reiterate, is a phenomenally bad idea?"

"Nobody ever made a technological breakthrough by being afraid of the unknown," Tony scoffed.

"It's only the unknown unknowns I'm afraid of," muttered Bruce. He toyed with the piece of colored card in his hands, flicking the corners, turning it this way and that and watching the silver print catch the light. He held it out to Tony. "I still can't believe you did this."

"Why not? You said no presents, only anonymous charity donations if we really wanted to give you something, and I did what I was told. For once. What, are you counting that acknowledgement card as a present?"

"I just, it's five hundred grand," Bruce whispered. "An amount like that, I can't even—" he took off his glasses and scrubbed at his eyes. "Tony, thanks. I mean it. You chose well. That money's going to do more good for people than I could have done in a lifetime."

Steve listened to them, smiled, and elected not to mention what had gone into the planning of Tony's gift. Every one of these organizations had records, cash flows, and allegiances they preferred not to share with the public; JARVIS had been a great help in cracking open their digital vaults and laying their secrets at Tony's feet. After he'd weeded out the corrupt, the profiteers, the anti-superhero fanatics, and the ones who funded hate and foreign wars, there hadn't been many left to choose from. That all this information had essentially been stolen made Steve a little queasy, but he supposed Tony's justification made some amount of sense: _you've got to fight fire with fire_.

"I wouldn't give up so easily if I were you," said Tony, voice sly and teasing.

Bruce's mouth ballooned and he nearly spat out his tea. "You spent months mocking me for trying to make the world a better place one poor sick kid at a time, and now you're trying to be supportive? I'm calling an ambulance. I think you're about to have a stroke."

"No," said Tony, "no, that wasn't what I meant."

"Then what _do_ you mean?" Bruce asked wearily. "Can you get to the point? I'm too hung over this morning to read between the lines. Especially your lines. Your lines are always so jagged and blurred."

Tony stared out the window, deep in thought. "The world knows your face now," he stated, "even in the poorest slum in Calcutta, the deepest jungle in the Amazon, they know your face. And there are bounty hunters and opportunists everywhere."

"Thanks for reminding me. Still not seeing your point," Bruce huffed.

"My point is," said Tony, "even if you didn't have a price on your head, you were never going to make a difference lurking in the backstreets with your medical kit. But you can still change the world."

With a snort, Bruce replied, "I'm not a billionaire."

"You're one better. You're the Hulk."

"I'm _not_ the—" Bruce cut himself off and asked, "okay, where exactly are you going with this?"

Tony got up and started pacing around. Poured himself another coffee. "There are dictators out there running prison camps and massacring their own people. There are terrorists killing civilians and blowing up hospitals and schools. You don't have a million dollars, and you can't do the work of a million doctors, but you're bulletproof. Indestructible. So if you can't add to the good," he said slowly, "you subtract from the bad. Same net result." He dropped his palms on the table. "The world knows your face, so _show_ them. Stop hating what you are and turn that hate on the shitbags who deserve it."

Bruce's laugh sounded more hyena than human. "Who am I to decide who deserves it? You want me to appoint myself judge, jury, and executioner?"

Tony shrugged. "If that's what the Hulk decides, who's going to argue with him?"

Steve eyed the two of them with caution, remembering that when Tony wanted something, the best way he knew to get it was to spin a web around it with adept words, devastating and irresistible. Steve knew this all too well, but he also knew, intimately, the way Tony looked and sounded and smelled when he was on the hunt, and this morning he sensed none of that. There was a different person in front of him now—a Tony who _believed_ in something. Which was a change, maybe a good change. But nonetheless. "Tony," he said, "I love you, but please never give a motivational speech again."

"My headache just got ten times worse," Bruce complained.

"Here, let me fix that." Tony punched a button on the coffee machine, filling a styrofoam cup with dark, pungent espresso. He set it down in front of Bruce and snatched away his mug of tea, emptying it in one gulp. "Oh, ugh. This tastes like week-old bathwater from a hippy commune. No wonder you feel like shit."

Bruce ignored the coffee. "You've thought this through," he said, "you've thought about it too much." He looked like _he_ was starting to think about it too much.

Tony pitched forward, coming down onto his forearms until he and Bruce were nose to nose. "Are you really, honestly going to tell me that you believe this planet wouldn't be better off with certain people wiped off of its face?" He growled. "General Ross, for example? I know the Hulk wants to smash him, but I think you do too."

"I wouldn't be sad to see him dead," Bruce replied, each word a gingerly footstep through a minefield.

"Good, because that was my plan before you specified no presents. Just Ross's severed head in a box. I guess it'd start to smell after a while, though. And considering what he's done to you, decapitation would be too kind." Tony laughed a little to himself, and Steve hoped that meant he was kidding.

With a grimace, Bruce repeated, "what Ross has done to me? Compared to Obadiah Stane literally _tearing your heart out_? No contest. Fucking hell, Tony, if he weren't already dead, I'd mash him to a pulp and put him in a jar for you."

Tony hummed. "Plenty more enemies where he came from."

"Indulging in revenge fantasies, are we?" Asked Natasha, padding softly into the kitchen and making a beeline for the bacon.

"Morning, Natasha," said Tony, "take a seat, join the panel. You can be our resident expert on killing people in creative and nauseating ways."

"Don't be silly," smiled Natasha as she fired up a burner, "I can't talk about that. Spies are like magicians. Can't break the code." She threw the bacon in the pan and nibbled on a slice of toast. "Besides, revenge is a waste of time."

"What about your ledger?" Asked Bruce.

"Strictly business," she replied. "Assassinations aren't random. There's a pattern, there's a purpose. When you have a fire in your heart, when you kill out of vengeance, it's the opposite. You twist the chains. It's chaos."

"Everyone's a piece in the great game, huh?" Tony mused.

"That's deep," commented Bruce, "so there's no one you'd like to—? Really, no one?"

Natasha fell silent for a while, thinking it over. "The past is past. The people who've touched me, the people who've hurt me, have made me who I am. For better or for worse," she answered firmly.

"Okay, can we stop talking about murder now?" Steve said, staring white-faced at Tony and Bruce. "Were you guys even _listening_ to yourselves?"

"Sure, it's easy for you to be high and mighty about it," Tony scoffed, "anyone who ever wanted you dead is dead. Or at least really old and decrepit by now."

"I doubt there were that many in the first place," said Bruce, "just HYDRA and the Axis, right? And for them, it wasn't personal. It's hard to hate you, Steve."

"Thanks. I think."

"Even Suit Watch likes you," Natasha observed, "and those people don't like _anything_."

"You only have to watch out for the scalpel brigade," Bruce continued, "after all, you're the original super soldier—the holy grail. We'd both be valuable commodities if they could get us on a slab under nitrous."

On hearing that, a stormy cast fell over Tony's face and his mouth thinned to a hard line. It seemed like this was something he hadn't considered before. "I'll kill anyone who tries. We're ready for anything," he snarled, and while he may or may not have been joking before, he was dead serious now. There was no mistaking it.

With breakfast over, Steve tried not to think about severed heads and mashed guts as he packed his bag and got ready to leave for his shift at the firehouse. He'd taken lives before, of course; dozens, maybe hundreds. So had Tony and everyone else on the team. Steve the strategist decided which of their enemies lived and died, and Steve the warrior flung explosives, snapped necks, and liquified bodies from the inside out with the vibration of his shield. In truth, he'd done a lot of terrible, violent, ruthless things, but the greater good had always been a salve on his conscience. It was Tony's true north, too, in a strange and twisted way, but the force of his desire pulled in dangerous directions. For the rest of the day, Rhodey's words from last night tossed and tumbled in Steve's mind like boats caught in a whirlpool.


	11. Do Iron Men Dream of Electric Sheep?

Tony's been back to SHIELD medical at least twice since the first time, and he's almost completely sure it was only in his head. Between the beatings, the pain, the panic, and the numbing gray sameness plastered on the four walls of his prison, he's started having trouble telling real from not-real. The hospital looks different each time, shifting and morphing between gleaming Los Angeles luxury and a battered tent in a blazing war zone. Sometimes Phil Coulson is there to wake him up, but sometimes he's cold and rotting on the bed next door, organs erupting amid wet gulps of corpse gas from the ragged hole in his torso while Nick Fury screams and curses and tries to shove them back inside. Loki taunts Tony from afar, and Steve appears and offers pity when all he needs is absolution.

The hospital isn't the only place Tony goes when he finds himself other-than-here. Sometimes he's home, sometimes he's at a party, and sometimes he's just floating in space. But this reality, Ross's reality, is the one that's persisted for the last few intervals of time that felt more or less like days, so Tony's pretty sure it's the right one. If nothing else, the terror is real.

Ross hasn't been around lately. Has Tony managed to slip away every time he appears? No, the evidence, think about the evidence. He has no fresh wounds and his skin is knitting together; his body, at least, is recovering, even if his mind is coming apart at the seams. Even the pain has faded into the background, all of his injuries blending together like white noise—all except the sting from the raw, oozing sores encircling his ankles and wrists. Those won't heal as long as he stays in these chains.

Without Ross here to torment him, Tony's days are blank and fuzzy. Once in a while, a pair of masked grunts will show up to make sure he hasn't broken out somehow. They cut him down and point their rifles at him while he eats. They walk him to the bathroom and point their rifles at him while he shits. And then they throw him up against the wall of his cell, one of them lifting his limp arms with gloved hands and the other forcing his legs to spread with a rough jab of his (her?) gunstock, and the shackles lock around him again. They watch him with rifles raised until they're back on the other side of the door.

Sterns is the only other human Tony sees. He comes and goes, sitting at his computer for what seems like hours on end, throwing the occasional disinterested glance at Tony to check he's still there, still alive. Not that Sterns gives two shits about him either way, but Tony thinks he can change that. He can get him on his side. True, Tony's in no position to intimidate him or get under his skin, but those aren't the only dances in his repertoire. They're alone; he can't pass up this chance. Reality solidifies as Tony gathers himself back into himself and sharpens his words. "Hey," he shouts, "hey, whatcha reading?"

No answer.

"Is it porn? _Harry Potter_ fanfiction? Is it _Harry Potter_ porn fanfiction?"

Sterns grunts with annoyance and peers around the edge of his monitor at Tony. "Journals," he mumbles.

Boring. "Why're you reading journals down here? Don't you have an office? Or does the sight of me trussed up like this turn you on?" Tony really hopes not, but he's trying every angle. Fortunately (or not, he's still working out his strategy here), his suggestive tone seems to sail right over Sterns's massive distended head.

"This is my office," says Sterns.

"This is your office," Tony repeats incredulously. "Your office is in a torture chamber. Think about that for a while."

Voice flat, Sterns replies, "I'm taking what I can get. Better than wearing an exploding collar and explaining every trivial step of my work to the incompetents at SHIELD R&D."

"If 'better than an exploding collar' is the best thing you can say about your job, you need a new job," Tony prods. A small, apathetic noise is the only response he gets. He tries again. "What's your story with SHIELD, anyway?"

That gets his attention. "I study dynamic tissue regeneration. Or studied, past tense. And SHIELD, they had a guy that, ah, needed some repairs. Must have been an important guy to make them desperate enough to decant me from my stasis tank."

Stasis tank? Tony's brain puts the pieces together and flings them at him before he even knows what's happening. Snippets of data flash into his consciousness, extracts from one of the hundreds of thousands of documents he lifted from SHIELD on the helicarrier. Illegal experiments, Empire State University, Emil Blonsky, the Battle of Harlem. "Shit, you're Mr. Blue."

Sterns puts the mouse down and wheels his chair out. "You've heard of me," he ventures, and his face gives away everything. This is a man who wants the world to know his name, who feeds on fear and respect alike.

"You spooked them," says Tony, tuning his delivery for the perfect pitch of quiet awe, "you had them scared enough to send the Black Widow after you."

Chuckling, Sterns replies, "that's how it goes—you create one rampaging abomination and suddenly you're the bad guy forever."

"So General Ross breaks you out of containment and now you're stuck with him," Tony surmises.

The taunt has drawn him in. "I am not 'stuck with him'," Sterns argues, "he wasn't smart enough to put an exploding collar on me. He keeps a cache of C-4 in a closet upstairs, and for god's sake, he doesn't even lock it," he rants, spitting out an arrogant, unstable laugh. "I'm no engineer, but I see five things in this room alone that I can use to blow this whole compound to kingdom come." He's all wound up now, shaking with excitement. "I can leave any time I like," he shouts.

"So why don't you?" Tony pushes, "why stay here and waste your talent playing minion to a big dumb idiot like Ross?"

"He's going to set me up with a lab and get me funding to continue my research," answers Sterns, "and he promised to give me Banner. Alive, preferably, but I'll settle for dead if that's what happens. Do you know, the gamma radiation, the mutation, that _power_ —some days it's all I can think about. I have to learn how it works. I have to _know_." He stares up at Tony, eyes manic and hungry. "Don't you want to get out of here? If you just hurry up and tell us where Banner is, we can all go home, nice and easy."

What's that tremor in his voice? Tony can tell the payout isn't the only thing on his mind. There's something else. He's _scared_. "You can't go home," Tony realizes as the dots slowly connect, "you have a price on your head too. That's why you haven't tried to escape. If Ross doesn't catch you, SHIELD will. You're just as much a prisoner as I am."

Sterns stiffens. "He'll let me go after he's through with Banner. After he gets what he wants from him. He's going to wipe my record and get me set up for a new start."

The poor, gullible bastard. Tony resists the urge to laugh. "You know he's not going to do that."

"Have you been in a stasis tank before?" Sterns asks him after a stretch of thoughtful silence. "Do you know what it's like in there? You must have read the literature. They say it's just like being asleep. No dreams, no time passing, no awareness of anything in between going under and getting poured out." Sweat shines on his enormous forehead. "It isn't true," he whimpers, "you drift in and out. You hear everything, but you can't see, you can't move. Full body paralysis. It's a cold half-death in there." His fingers are digging into his knees. "With Ross," he explains, "there's a small but nonzero chance I walk out a free man and no one stabs me in the back. With SHIELD, I'd patch up their agent and they'd put me right back in the tank—that's a certainty. In a probability space like that, the optimal choice is obvious."

Why doesn't anyone ever think of the third option? "Break us out and come work for me," Tony offers, "Stark Industries has a bioengineering department now, and they need someone like you in charge." Yes, his completely fictional new department has the perfect opening for a criminal mad scientist. "These are big projects we're tackling," he teases, "absolutely game-changing."

"Banner is the only experiment I'm interested in," Sterns replies bluntly, and if Tony weren't chained to the wall, he'd lunge for his throat. Bruce is not an _experiment_.

Tony stays on the offensive. "I have Steve Rogers—Captain America. The super serum. It's the holy grail, isn't it? The secret's been lost for almost seventy years, but it's all written somewhere in his genetic code."

"'Secret' is a word for small, uncomprehending minds," Sterns responds, but he looks intrigued.

Almost there. "I'll protect you from SHIELD," Tony promises. _I'll staple your balls to your forehead and dump you on their doorstep, you fucking maniac._

Sterns snorts and shakes his head. "I've been an accessory to torture. _Your_ torture. Even if I help you escape, you won't forget that."

Crap. Tony's losing the advantage. He needs to stall and regroup. "Forgiveness is a virtue," he blabbers.

"And you're a pillar of virtue, aren't you?" Counters Sterns.

They're interrupted by a familiar noise that fills Tony with dread. Pneumatic suction, creaking metal, heavy footfalls—Ross is back. "Authorization came through," he announces, shoving some papers at Sterns, who scans them, face unreadable.

"Looks pretty standard," he tells Ross, "maximum removal time is two minutes and you have to let him recover for at least four hours. They want a report if we discover anything in there they don't already know about. Same big bold warning as last time, put him back together how you found him, consequences if you kill him by accident, reasonable force, court-martial, _et cetera_."

Ross waves him away like he's swatting a fly. He grabs Tony's jaw and forces him to look at his face. "You're a tough nut to crack, Stark. For a genius, you remind me an awful lot of the dumb fucks I met in Guantanamo. You all hold out as long as you can, you use mind tricks to keep from breaking, you call me names, claw and spit at me, insult my mother, curse my descendants. Your loyalty's your lifeline. But you don't get it: this is a game you will _always_ lose." He paces slowly in a half-circle around Tony, his stance low, predatory. "The smart ones figure it out quick and start talking. The stupid ones like you just endure the pain day after day, week after week, month after month, until it's too much—and _then_ you talk. You do it to yourselves. Your struggle makes no difference to me. I get the information I want either way." He stalks towards Tony and places one solid palm on the arc reactor, causing Tony to jerk back reflexively. "The seat of your power is your weakest point," Ross growls, "this is where you break."

He jams his thick fingers into the catches on the casing of Tony's reactor, prying off the cover and tossing it aside. Sterns grabs it out of midair before it hits the floor. And Ross is fumbling at the inner catches now, the ones that keep the reactor itself locked in place, thumbs hitting the scar tissue around the cavity and drawing screams from the sensitive nerves. _No_ , thinks Tony, _no, this isn't happening, not again—Obadiah—_ but at least Obie ripped it out in one fell swoop. Ross has no idea what he's doing. He jabs heedlessly at the reactor, pushing and twisting different components at random until by chance the main body detaches and the slack rapidly goes out of the connecting wire, _the_ wire, the one wire that forms a thin line between Tony and a horrible, agonizing death.

And Ross pulls it out.

Tony's muscles go into spasm all at once. Breaths come quick and shallow, his pulse races, and everything constricts around that hideous empty space in his chest. A cloudy, viscous glob of plasmic discharge splatters on the ground at his feet. His vision blurs as a wave of nausea slams into him, and he swears he can _feel_ the sharp tips of the shrapnel piercing through his ribcage, every pump of his traitorous heart driving them closer and closer to home.

There's a hairy arm inside him—oh, fuck, Ross is _inside_ him, tapping the inner walls of the casing, touching, _violating_ everything at the core of who he is. He eases his hand out and yells something at Sterns, who comes over and sticks his own hand inside, smaller, delicate, probing. So it's a gangbang now. Delightful. There was no stun wand this time, so there's nothing to stop Tony's intestines emptying themselves out through his mouth. He's too far gone in the haze of pain and panic to see what happens, but he hopes some of that vomit made it onto Ross. The idea is somehow hilarious to Tony in his insensate, terrified state, and he starts to half-laugh, half-choke. He's going into cardiac arrest, and that isn't funny at all, but he just can't stop, he can't stop laughing.

His senses are shutting down. Everything around him turns liquid and dark. Blurred shapes bob around bleed into each other. Noise swirls around the edges like a fighter jet's condensation trail. Convulsions rattle his body; somewhere a doomsday machine is resonating, and Tony is the earth, helpless against its rhythm as he shakes himself to pieces. He's detaching, coming apart, washing away in an airless sea of color and sound and central nervous cataclysm. He fights to stay afloat, but he's sinking, sinking—

And suddenly the world comes flooding back. It's so clear, it's excruciating. Sagging against his restraints, Tony gasps for breath. The rushing air is audible, sharp as a knife. He looks down, eyes perfectly focused now, and there's the arc reactor filling the hole in his chest once more, humming a gentle blue as if nothing's happened. It looks like it's seated and connected properly. He doesn't see any wires sticking out. The cover is still off, is all. It's in front of Sterns on his desk, next to the little triangle of vibranium that keeps the reactor running. But wait, if the vibranium is out there, then what's inside the...?

Oh, he knows this metallic taste, this heavy feeling in his veins. Tony looks down again, and how did he miss that before? It's only just started and it's so light it's barely visible, but he knows what he's looking for, and sure enough there they are, those little spiders of bruise-blue fanning out from the reactor.

Palladium poisoning.

"Every five days is the limit," he hears Sterns saying to Ross, "but I recommend we keep it to four. The antidote's expensive, but we should stay on the safe side. Big bold warning, remember."

"It's leverage," Ross vetoes, "he knows how long he'll last without it. Stretch it out. A sick man's a desperate man. He'll—"

A massive explosion from outside sends Ross sprawling to his feet. The lock pings off the door, rocketing into Sterns's computer, which sparks briefly before going up in flames. White smoke seeps into every space in the room, stinging Tony's eyes and triggers a coughing fit. There's a chaotic racket of clanging metal and shouting, and as the smoke clears, Tony makes out four unmistakable silhouettes.

Here comes Steve charging at him, throwing his shield to one side and scrabbling at his cuffs. There goes Mjölnir flattening Sterns like a water balloon. Here comes Clint with his bow. There goes an arrow exploding in the General's eye; there goes his brain painting the wall, his headless body crumpling to the floor. And here comes Natasha, floating towards him with her cloud of red hair, a syringe in her right hand. "Don't fight it," she whispers, and pushes the point of the needle into his neck. But there is no pinch, no sting. Numbness floods his body, nerve endings shutting down one by one. The pain is gone.

"Thor," Steve calls, still struggling with the restraints, "little help?"

Thor takes up his hammer, and with a great roar, he rips the shackles from the wall and gathers Tony up in his arms. "We will take our leave," he booms, shaking one of Tony's wrists in the air, "and remove these when we are home!" His hair falls over Tony's face. His armor feels cold on his skin. He smells like a rainstorm. Thor.

Thor?

No, Thor is in Asgard, this doesn't make any sense—

The strong arms and the alien metal armor fall away. Clint crumbles to dust, leaving his bow and arrows and a pile of empty clothes. Steve, back in his T-shirt and sweatpants, bolts through the ruined door, and Natasha is nothing but a fading cloud of red.

Real and not-real, not-real and real.

Tony begins to weep, great heaving sobs that shake his muscles and bones with their force. Are Ross and Sterns out there watching him cry, or are they watching him hang from his wrists, unconscious, listing to one side and drifting and twitching? Is he doing this in real space, or in the places his mind escapes to when the cracks begin to show? Where is his body? Where is his team? _Where is his team?_


	12. Tower Siege

Deep breath.

Tony stared at the implant gun in his hand. He tried to tell himself it would be easy, just like that time with the cigarette filter and the spoon in the VIP lounge of that bar he couldn't remember the name of now, all these years and all these regrets later. This time, though, there was no driving bass jackhammering in his skull, no roomful of millionaires on the rush of their lives shouting their invincibility to the world—just Tony, his lab, his newest invention, and the pale patch of sterilized skin on his left arm.

He brought the barrel up and pulled the trigger. The transponder punched through his skin with a hydraulic puff. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!"

"You're an idiot," said Bruce.

"I quite concur, sir," said JARVIS.

Correction: not just Tony and his lab. He had an audience this morning.

He caught his breath and raised his forearm up to the light. "Is it in there?" He asked, squinting at the red, swollen lump. He moved his other hand to—

"No, don't _poke_ it," Bruce chided, swatting his hand away. He took Tony's wrist and turned his arm this way and that. "Yeah. Looks like it's in there. That's step one. So what's the rest of your half-baked idea?"

"It's fully baked. Three-quarters baked, at minimum." Tony tapped at his keyboard and a progress bar sprung up on the monitor. _Searching_ , it blinked, filling steadily with green. A happy chime rang out when it was done. "Signal's working. Great. The next step is to link it to the armor assembly systems."

"Should be easy," said Bruce, "just plug and play, right?"

"Damn it," cursed Tony, "I knew there was something I forgot."

"'Write standard armor API' is #32 on your to-do list, sir," JARVIS piped up, "medium priority. Your last reminder for this item was seventeen days ago."

"This is like when my tablet can't talk to my phone, isn't it?" Said Bruce.

Tony sighed. "You know how some cities are perfectly designed and built from the ground up? And some cities started as a circle of shacks a thousand years ago and grew by random accretion, and then some parts were bulldozed and paved over and replaced with something else, and buildings are going up and coming down all the time?" He sketched idle holographic diagrams in the air as he talked. "The firmware that controls the armor is the second one," he explained, "it's a mess. Like a car made entirely out of duct tape. I've never had the time to sit down and clean the whole thing up."

"So you can patch this part on like the others and leave the cleanup for later," Bruce figured, "or get the harder job done now so that next time will be easier."

"You know delayed gratification isn't my strong suit," Tony replied.

"Next time could be an emergency," Bruce remarked.

As much as Tony hated to admit it, he had a point. An idea struck him. "Where's Jane Foster? I need Jane Foster up here." He needed her disciplined eye, her attention to detail, her brevity. Tony lived in a world of constant and frenzied creation, with machines and visions spilling from him in endless convoluted trails. He didn't know how to cull. The dial that switched him from one mode to another had snapped off the day he built his first bot, years before he learned to read, and since then he'd been permanently cranked to eleven.

"She's probably running experiments with the Bifrost again. So," Bruce said with a quirk of his lips, "until you connect your transponder to everything else, one way or another, you have a useless infection magnet stuck in your arm. Congratulations."

"The signal's still good for something," Tony argued, "it broadcasts my location, like a tiny homing beacon. A tiny, _itchy_ homing beacon." He made to scratch it, but Bruce caught his hand with a firm 'no' before he got there. "If some evil villain kidnaps me, you can trace it and come save the day."

"Don't even joke about that," Bruce muttered.

"Sir," interrupted JARVIS, "I must inform you, there is quite the commotion brewing outside the tower—"

"The protesters again?" Bruce asked.

"Unlikely," JARVIS responded, "unless they have somehow acquired a tank."

Tony and Bruce exchanged a look. Tanks meant army. Army meant General Thaddeus Ross.

They rushed to the command center. Steve, Natasha, Clint, and Thor were suited up and waiting. Pepper and the Science Girlfriends looked on, Betty staying well clear of the balcony and the windows. A military convoy had gathered on the ground: one tank, a swarm of APCs and Humvees, and a clutch of smaller cars and bikes. The voice of General Ross boomed from a truck-mounted loudspeaker, ear-splitting even at this distance. "Banner!" He yelled, "I know you're in there, and I suggest you come quietly!"

Clint turned to Bruce. "Plan A?"

"Plan A," Bruce confirmed. 

Tony watched the elevator suck the two of them down to the tower's subterranean levels. A nearby monitor flickered to life, showing the rest of the team a security camera feed that tracked the pair as they headed for the Hulk-proof lab. Clint waited for Bruce to walk in and enter a code on a touchpad before keying in his own code from outside. The main door locked and Clint made his way back upstairs while Bruce scurried around the internal doors and tapped in more lockdown codes. The side rooms sealed themselves off one by one, leaving Bruce alone in the dim, empty foyer. There was nothing to smash in there, and no one would be entering or leaving without passcodes from both sides. If Ross somehow made it to the basement, it'd be easy to corner him. "Sit tight, buddy," said Tony into the intercom, "we'll see you when this is over."

Bruce looked up at the camera and forced a smile and a limp thumbs-up.

Clint was bounding back into the command center as Ross's loudspeaker started to crackle again. "Stop hiding, Banner," he yelled, "I have orders to bring you in! It's time to give yourself up before you destroy any more innocent lives!"

"He can't hear you down there, moron," muttered Tony.

"We are not going to allow this," Thor half-told, half-asked the rest of them.

"No," replied Tony, "we're not. We all know what happens if that lunatic gets his hands on Bruce."

Natasha's mouth was set in a firm line, her eyes hard. "No government has the right to cut their people up like laboratory mice," she whispered.

"Is everyone on comms?" Steve asked. A chorus of nods and touches to ears. "Stand by for now. I'll go down there and talk to him."

Tony wasn't listening. He was far more interested in the imported, hand-carved sideboard next to him, which was decorated with a yellow silk cloth and a pair of metal spheres. These, too, had been part of Pepper's plans. He grabbed them and smacked them against one another, and little lights zipped around their equators to tell him they were operational. "My way is faster," he said, and with one sphere held in each hand, he worked up a running start and took a flying leap off the ledge. He vaguely heard Steve screaming, "Tony, no!" as he fell.

The Manhattan skyline flew past him. The wind was deafening; it burned his face. _I hope this works_ , Tony thought belatedly, releasing the spheres and watching them transform into gauntlets around his arms. The rest of the armor came crashing through the windows of his workshop, and his suit flashed into existence around him. The repulsors caught him inches off the ground. He powered down. A hundred barrels swiveled towards him and clicked.

"Where are you hiding, General?" Tony asked, surveying the scene. Too many lifesigns, too many bulletproof windows reflecting the thick clouds overhead. "I'm assuming you're in the tank, so I'm going to talk to the tank," he continued, "Bruce Banner is mine. You can't have him. Too bad."

JARVIS thoughtfully dialed down the audio volume before piping the loudspeaker's reply through to Tony's helmet. "He's government property. Hand him over."

Tony crossed his arms. "No."

"The army has ordered his capture. You circus freaks trying to stop me? I'm authorized to use force," Ross threatened.

"I can see that," Tony responded. "You don't do subtle, do you? Say, have you ever tried zen meditation? You should take a trip to Tibet, meet some monks, work on your anger problems. It's not healthy to hold grudges."

"What are you _doing_ , Tony?" Steve hissed into his comm.

Tony ignored him. "Desire is the root of all suffering," he taunted, "learn to let go of your wants, because you sure as hell aren't getting what you want today."

"Their vehicle-mounted energy cannons are powering up, sir," JARVIS cautioned, "I suggest we—" the suit skidded to one side, barely avoiding a blast of plasma. "Forgive me for taking control there, sir," said JARVIS, "but my reflexes are faster than yours. Also, their energy cannons are now fully powered up."

"I know!" Tony yelled, firing his repulsors and spinning up into the sky. Balls of electric grapeshot pursued him but fizzled out before making contact. He looked down, scanning the cannons on his HUD. Their chambers had gone dark. "Limited range and speed on their energy cannons," he reported to the comm channel, "but I bet they're packing a bunch conventional firearms too." As if on cue, soldiers began to pour out of the convoy and stream towards the tower with rifles raised. "Do you have a plan, Cap?"

"I _had_ a plan," Steve shouted back. "Damn it, Tony. All right, listen up! Thor, disable the tank, and Tony, take out as much of the artillery you can. Pepper, are the on-site staff done evacuating?"

"Ten minutes ago," Pepper replied.

"Good. Can you get Betty and Jane to the safe room?"

"We're on our way."

"They're trying to infiltrate the tower," Steve said, "Natasha and I will guard the ground level entrances. So will the bots and the automated systems. Clint, get up high and don't let anyone in. You're our eyes; tell us where we need to be. And everyone, these soldiers are just doing a job, so let's not—let's not hurt them unless we have to," he added. By 'hurt' he meant 'kill', of course, but he'd been edgy around that word since that time in the kitchen last week.

The cannons started charging again. Tony knew the suit could maneuver out of the way when they fired, so he went for the howitzers first. The soldiers were quick to lay down covering fire, forcing Tony to speed up and keep moving while blasting what he could. At the edge of his field of view he saw Thor land on top of the tank, cape aflutter, and bring his hammer down on the main gun, which cracked in two and tumbled to the ground. A flock of tiny drones took flight from the tower, showering the advancing infantry with taser darts and flashbangs.

Tony's earpiece buzzed. "Steve!" Pepper called, "we're in the stairwell—there are two helicopters coming in from the north! I can see them from the window!"

Ross had air support too? Wonderful. Tony zipped around the tower to intercept them, banking sharply to dodge a propeller blade to the face. These choppers were smaller than he expected, painted black from nose to tail and loaded with armaments he'd never seen before. They weren't military helicopters, Tony realized, they must be—

"General Ross," came an amplified voice from the front copter, "this is SHIELD! Stand down!"

"Looks like the cavalry's here," said Clint over the comm.

"Return the captive," shouted the pilot as a few of the detachment's bigger guns slowly rotated up and away from Tony. A warning shot missed the rear chopper and whistled away into the distance. "Return the captive or we'll open fire," the pilot warned. Ross responded with another shell, and the choppers nimbly parted to let it through. "Fire it is," said the pilot, sounding almost pleased. "Agents Romanoff and Barton, we need you onside!"

The front copter angled upward and rose to the roof of the tower while the other went in for a landing on the ground on top of Ross's troops, forcing them to scatter or be crushed. Well. That was certainly one way to do it. Tony caught sight of Natasha climbing on board. "Did you copy that, Clint?" Asked her disembodied voice.

"Copy what?" Said Steve. "Natasha? Natasha! Clint! Can you two hear me?"

No response. They'd switched frequencies. Pepper buzzed in with an update. "We're locked down in the safe room. What's happening out there? Where did Natasha go?"

"The choppers were SHIELD," Steve said tersely, "she and Clint have dropped out of the channel.

Suddenly, Natasha popped back in. "We have new orders."

"The General has taken something from SHIELD, and they want it back," Clint explained. "This won't take long. We'll be back ASAP." At least he had the decency to put on an apologetic voice.

"We're still listening on the channel, but you three will have to up your game for now," Natasha warned.

That was the last Tony heard from either of them. The air grew thick with shells and bullets, Ross's forces thrown into disarray by low sweeps from Natasha's helicopter and sniper shots from Clint's up above. Tony snaked through the storm, repulsors firing, and swung by Thor to pick up some charge. His eyes quickly snapped to a red, blaring circle on his HUD that showed him Clint's copter preparing to fire its missiles. The crosshair was on the tank—and on Thor, who was still on top of it, beating the living daylights out of its armor plating. Alien demigod or not, Tony wasn't certain even Thor could shake off a hit like that. "Thor! Coming in from your right!" He yelled, tackling him and zooming them both out of range of the missile strike.

Steve's voice cracked in Tony's ears, livid with fury. "Clint!" He shouted, "tell them to cool it with the friendly fire! Can they link up our comms so we can coordinate our attack?"

It took a few seconds for Clint to reply. "There's nothing to coordinate, Cap. They didn't come here to help us."

Great. So that was that. Tony did a one-eighty and released Thor, who stood and raised his hammer to the sky. The thunder rumbled and a dome of lightning enveloped him, arcing out and frying the surrounding bikes and cars. Both SHIELD helicopters began retreating out to the street, drawing some fire away from Thor and Tony.

"The rear entrance of the tower has been compromised," reported JARVIS, "all sentry bots have been destroyed."

"Fuck!" Steve shouted. "I needed Natasha to watch the other side—I can't be in two places at once!"

"I'm coming up there, Steve!" Said Pepper. "I'm heading for the armory now!"

"Absolutely not!" Tony snapped. "Stay where you are! You'll die!"

"Tony, what kind of shape is the artillery in?" Steve asked.

"It's hard to land a solid hit," Tony answered, "but they're distracted by the choppers. I'd say they're down to fifty per cent—wait, what the fuck is _that_?" He watched as a cargo bay opened and an enormous contraption rolled out. Coils and coils of heavy wire, a telescoping barrel longer than the Hulk was tall, and something bright and seething encased in glass at the core. No sooner had the thing deployed than it started absorbing Thor's lightning into itself like a vacuum. Stripped of his defensive field, Thor was hammered by suppressing fire from all sides, and he swung Mjölnir around wildly in an attempt to clear a path to a stronger position.

"Tony? What is it? Talk to me!" Steve demanded.

"He's got some kind of weapon that neutralizes Thor's lightning," Tony replied, "must be Hammer tech. If we're lucky it'll blow itself up in a few minutes. If not, bad news."

"What?"

"It's storing the energy. Charging up for something big. Fuck, Ross came prepared. He was expecting a fight from all of us, not just the Hulk," Tony said.

"We're going on the defensive," Steve decided, "we've got soldiers swarming inside the tower now. Tony, come inside and clean them up, and Thor, get to the rear entrance and let's hope that thing won't work from that far away."

Tony didn't need to be told twice. He doubled back towards the tower, barreling through the crowd of foot soldiers in his way, grabbing one and flinging him at another for good measure. The main door was done for; he flew through its shattered remains, zeroing in on the lifesigns on his HUD and preparing to fire when all of a sudden there came a mighty wave of energy that killed the lights and knocked him to the floor.

He glanced back over his shoulder at Ross's giant lightning cannon. Soot had blackened the mouth of the barrel; every one of its rings and coils glowed the color of the sun, and the core had gone dark. An EMP, Tony realized. The ace up Ross's sleeve. He'd kept it hidden until he could get close enough to Thor to get a charge, and now the pulse had knocked out the electricity, the bots, the comms, and probably also—

"JARVIS?" Tony called hesitantly.

Silence.

"JARVIS? Are you there?" He asked, even though he knew he wasn't.

Crap.

It was okay. Deep breath. Things would be okay. The shockwave must have hit the power relays, because there was nothing on Earth—especially not Hammer tech—that could disable the tower's main arc reactors. Once he got to the power conduits, he could easily fix things and get JARVIS back online, but for now he had to take out the invaders. The hunt was on.

Tony clanked and jangled down the darkened hallways and delivered swift punches to the faces of everyone he ran into. All around him rang a riotous clamor of yelling, shuffling and gunshots, but the scream of pain that Tony heard next ripped clear through everything else. He froze. He knew that voice—he'd never heard it make this sound, but _he knew that voice_.

The tower shook with a huge, explosive impact. A stairway crumbled, a beam collapsed. A rocket? Tony hardly noticed. He didn't care. The only thing that mattered now was that sound, that horrible scream. He took off, roaring at the top of his lungs, " _Steve_!"


	13. Despite All My Rage

"They had me surrounded," Steve bit out through clenched teeth, "caught me by surprise. This shield doesn't cover all of me."

"Easy, easy," Tony murmured, gripping Steve's hand tight in his glove. There was _so much blood_ , deep red on his clothes and the carpet, on the cap of the bullet buried deep in his right calf. This wasn't supposed to happen; Steve walked out of battles with scratches and nicks, not with bleeding gunshot wounds. Tony kept his voice calm, fighting the rising panic in his gut. "They didn't shoot to kill. They just wanted to keep moving without you coming after them."

"They're not here for me," groaned Steve, "it's Bruce they want. They're going to turn the tower upside-down looking for him. Help me—"

"You need first aid," said Tony. "The elevators are dead, but they're all over the stairs. We have to assume the floors near the ground are compromised. I'm taking you to the command center to patch you up."

Steve's breaths came ragged and shallow. "No," he insisted, "just pull out the bullet and I'll be fine—we have to stop them—"

Tony stared at him in disbelief. "You just got shot in the leg with an armor-piercing round. We are not going to argue about this." And before Steve could talk back, he grabbed him, careful not to jar his leg, and took flight.

"Thanks, Tony. I know where the first aid kid is. I'll take it from here," said Steve, wincing as Tony lowered him to the floor. "You have to get back to the fight."

"Has anyone ever told you how unbelievably stubborn you are?" Tony scolded. "Lie down on your stomach. And hold still. I'll hold you down if I have to."

The pain or the exhaustion or both must be getting to Steve, because he complied. "You need a mirror and forceps."

"Steve, shut up," said Tony gently, activating his helmet's flashlights and holding his hand over the wound. _Scanning_ , read the HUD, and in a few seconds an outline of the bullet appeared. He moved his hand, and glowing lines sprouted all over the image, guiding him to the best angle. "Okay, Steve, I need you to breathe. Three, two, one—"

He engaged the magnetic field on the glove's repulsor. The bullet quivered and Steve cried out, but he didn't move. _Come on_ , thought Tony, and slowly, slowly, the round began to work its way out of Steve's flesh. He was vibrating with the effort of keeping still, shaking all over except for that leg, which was pinned under Tony's other hand. Small sounds and curses escaped from his mouth, and Tony tried to make what he hoped were comforting noises. "Almost there," he whispered.

Finally, the entire inch of the bullet came free, smacking into Tony's palm with a _clang_. Blood gushed from the wound like a waterfall, bright and glossy under the flashlights. _Oh, shit_. Tony glanced around, frantic, and spotted the yellow silk on the sideboard. Pepper could buy another one. He shut off the magnetic field, flinging the bullet aside, and grabbed the cloth and pressed it to Steve's leg.

"Bandages, now," Steve gasped, reaching down to hold the cloth in place.

Tony opened the first aid box, jettisoned his repulsor gloves, doused his hands in sanitizer, and pulled out the bandages and tape. He popped the top on the bottle of antiseptic. "Ready?" Steve nodded, screwing his eyes shut tight. Tony flushed the wound, trying to block out the ungodly tortured howl that followed. "Sorry," he said, unwrapping the gauze.

Steve plucked it out of his hands and sat up. "Here. Let me." He managed a weak smile. "I'm the paramedic around here, remember?"

Tony watched Steve wind the bandages around his leg with methodical precision, even as he clenched his teeth and breathed heavily through the pain. A flash of movement on the floor caught Tony's eye—a tablet fallen from its mount, screen cracked, still showing the security feed from the basement where Bruce was holed up. The power down there ran on a different circuit, isolated from the rest of the tower, and it looked like it had escaped Ross's EMP. Tony picked up the tablet and saw Bruce pacing around inside, but wait—who was that on the other camera, at the outer door, under the cracked glass?

"Oh, fuck," said Tony.

Steve's scissors hesitated in the air next to the tape. He looked up, blue eyes wide with alarm. "What?"

Tony held the tablet out to him. "Betty Ross. She's down there with Bruce. She's trying to open the fucking door."

" _What_?" Steve repeated, dragging himself towards Tony on two hands and one knee and scrambling for the tablet, holding it up to his face. "How did she get down there? The elevators are broken!"

"She must have taken Clint's emergency route, climbed down the service ducts." Tony turned the audio up, hoping the tablet's speakers had survived the fall. The sound was weak and tinny, but it was there.

"Bruce," Betty called, "use your code. I've already entered mine."

"Is it over?" Bruce asked, mouth to the intercom.

"Far from it," Betty answered, "Clint and Natasha absconded with SHIELD. The electricity's gone out and the guys can't hold the soldiers off. The tower's being overwhelmed, Bruce. Please, let me inside—if they find me here alive, there'll be hell to pay. For everyone."

Tony watched in horror as Bruce went to unlock the door. Betty rushed in and held him tight, whispering something in his ear that the camera didn't pick up.

"We don't have a plan B," said Bruce.

"Jane and Pepper are working on it," Betty told him, "but if anyone finds them, they'll be killed. It's not looking good up there." She stroked his hair with both hands, drawing their foreheads together, and Tony had to strain to hear her voice. "Bruce, you have to let him out. He's the only one who can turn the tables now."

Steve looked pale enough from the blood loss, but under his cowl Tony saw his face turn a shade whiter. "She's going to unleash the Hulk."

Abruptly, the video feed went dark, and there was a loud mechanical screech. When the lights flickered back on a few seconds later, Tony saw Betty jabbing at the keypad by the door, then pounding on it with her fist. "It's no use," she said, "it's not responding—we're locked in! But why would he fire another pulse when the power's already down? He can't possibly know about this place..."

"I think he's rotating the frequency," Bruce said, "it's a a preemptive strike on any backup generators we might be using." He felt around the edges of the keypad. "We have emergency power down here. You've already unlocked the door from the outside, I just need to get this panel off and route the power into this circuit so that—"

"Can't you break through it?" Betty asked. "Can't _he_?"

"Hulk-proof," Bruce reminded her, "that would defeat the purpose." He threw his hands up in exasperation and looked around him. "There's nothing here that I can use, no tools, nothing sharp. We need to get that door open before I—before I—" He dropped to his knees and groaned long and low. "This is all my fault," he cried, "Jane and Pepper are going to die, he's destroying Tony's home—no, no, no, no—"

Betty backed away and plastered herself against the far wall as Bruce hunched over, back to the camera. His hands slammed onto the ground, larger than they should be, and his shirt stretched, buttons scattering across the floor, before giving in and ripping to pieces. His neck thickened, ropes of muscle shifting and bulging under the skin, which had begun to mottle with green.

"Oh, god." Steve gripped the edges of the tablet with ghost-white knuckles. "He's hulking out. We have to get down there!"

That was when Tony noticed the timestamp at the corner of the screen. He checked his own clock on his display, and his stomach curdled with dread. "The playback's delayed by five minutes," he whispered. "It must have gone down for after the first EMP, and that was how long it took to reconnect. Five minutes," he repeated, staring at Steve, "it's probably too late now."

Both of them could do nothing but continue watching, helpless with fear. Bruce's clothes lay in tatters on the ground; his transformation was complete. His head blocked out the camera as he drew himself up to his full height and bellowed with rage. He stomped to the door, trying a few punches before throwing his weight against it. He kicked the door. He headbutted the door. He didn't make a dent. "Puny room!" Hulk shouted. "Hulk want out!" He turned and lumbered around the foyer, searching for something to smash.

"He's spotted her," Steve croaked.

Betty cowered in the corner and shrieked as Hulk grabbed her by the waist and dragged her out. "Bruce!" She screamed, "stop! You need to take control! When I said let him out, I didn't mean right _now_! Please, please," she begged, covering her face with her hands, "come back, Bruce. Come back, come back."

Steve pushed the tablet away. "I can't watch. She's going to die."

Hulk raised a fist in a prelude to smashing, but faltered when he heard her voice. Tony watched, heart pounding, as Hulk moved his hand up and down a few times, clenching and unclenching his fist like he didn't know what to do with it. Finally, his arm dropped to his side and his whole posture softened. "Betty...?"

She peeked out through the gaps in her fingers. "Bruce?"

Hulk shook his head. "Not puny man."

"So it's you," Betty breathed, "you—you know my name?"

"Hulk know Betty. Betty friend." He looked around forlornly. "Where Hulk's other friends? Star man, thunder man, shiny man?"

"They're upstairs," Betty replied, "they're fighting a battle." She paused to consider her words. "They're fighting a bad, bad man."

Hulk jumped to his feet. The impact shook the ground and made Betty jump a few inches in the air. "Hulk know," he growled, "Hulk smash bad man!" He punched the floor.

"Yes," said Betty in a soothing tone, "yes, I know Hulk wants to smash the bad man."

"Smash!" Hulk yelled. This was the most Tony had heard him speak since, well, ever.

"But," Betty continued, "we have a problem." She pointed to the door. "We're stuck in here. We can't get out."

"Hulk want out!"

"Betty wants out too," she said, "but I can't open the door, and neither can you. Only Bruce can open the door," she explained slowly, smiling, "Bruce is 'puny man'. The other guy who lives inside you."

Hulk sat back on the floor and slumped down, sinking into himself. "Betty want Bruce."

"Yes," she replied, "for now."

Steve chanced a cautious glance at the screen. "Why haven't I heard any screaming?"

"He _recognized_ her," said Tony, not even bothering to hide the wonder in his voice, "the big guy is very clear on who he does and doesn't want to smash. You're star man in Hulk-speak, by the way. I'm shiny man."

That was enough for Steve to crawl back over and take hold of the tablet again, leaning heavily against Tony's side. On the screen, Hulk said nothing, curling into a ball and rocking back and forth with sporadic heaves of his gargantuan shoulders.

"Hulk?" Betty ventured, inching nearer to him, "what's the matter?"

He wouldn't look at her. "Hulk miss Betty," he rumbled, low and deep, "Hulk always stuck inside. Hulk can see, not touch." He sniffed and sobbed, and the whole room shook. "But Betty want Bruce, not Hulk. Betty like Bruce. Not Hulk."

Betty reached up to wipe his eyes, and her hand must have come away dripping wet, because she shook it out a little. "That's not true," she said, "I do like you. We're friends, aren't we?"

Hulk brushed Betty's mouth with one enormous finger. "Friends," he repeated.

"Say, I have an idea," Betty said, "I know a way you can help all of us. Me, you, and Bruce." She took his finger and pulled him to the door, indicating a spot on the wall just above the access panel. "Here. Before you go, do you think you can smash a hole in the wall right here?"

Hulk grinned through the tears that hadn't quite stopped yet, sniffling and making a fist. "Hulk try."

"Wow," Steve commented, "he has a sense of humor."

The impact jarred the room, shaking the camera, and the plaster crumbled. It was only the first of eight layers of wall, but the crater he made would give Bruce and Betty plenty of space to get inside the panel. "Hulk tired," he moaned, sitting down again. "Rest now. Then smash bad man!"

"He's changing back now," Tony observed, "with the time delay, they must be out by now. Probably climbing up the ducts. And then she wants him to hulk out on her dad." He looked at Steve. "Are we—are we on board with that plan?"

Steve frowned. "If the General is telling the truth—if the government really has ordered Bruce's capture—then we're already in hot water for protecting him. Letting the Hulk smash up the battlefield could make things a whole lot worse."

Suddenly, there was a buzz in Tony's ear. "Hello? Can anyone hear me?" Asked Jane Foster's voice.

Tony adjusted his earpiece. "Tony here. Are the comms back up?"

"I've repaired the system," Jane answered.

"What? But you don't know how it works," said Tony.

"I do now," said Jane.

"Tony!" Thor shouted, "where have you gone? Where is Steve? I require backup—the enemy's forces are too great in number!" Oh, no. They'd left Thor all alone on the ground floor, hadn't they?

"We're on our way," Steve said. He hauled himself upright with a grunt. Fuck, all that blood. He looked like a crime scene. "What are you waiting for?" He murmured, folding Tony's arms around his waist, "let's go."

"Nuh-uh. You're staying put here, Bullet Holes McGee. What are you going to do, hobble up to the enemy and hope they don't run away before you bash them on the head with your shield?"

Steve turned and looked at him over his shoulder.

"That's exactly what you're going to do, isn't it," Tony sighed, "you goddamn stubborn bastard. All right, let's go. Try not to get shot again, okay?"

"It'll heal," Steve offered sheepishly, "it's healing already."

Tony braced Steve tightly against his chest and prepared to take off just as Pepper's voice broke into the comm line. "Tony," she said, "I need to know something very important _right now_ : your area disruptor prototype, the Sister Ray. Which end is the front end?"

"The end with the orange tape around it," Tony replied, plucking the answer from his mental catalog without really thinking.

"Oh, good," said Pepper, "I'm glad I asked."

"Wait," said Tony, "why did you—"

There came a sound like _whoosh_ , like _foom_ , like all the air in the room condensing to a single point and then billowing out at the speed of light. _The blowback problem_ , thought Tony after his brain reassembled itself. There was a reason the Sister Ray was still a prototype.

"What was _that_?" Thor yelled from down below.

"Look outside," Pepper breathed.

As Tony's eyes refocused, he saw Steve limping over to the balcony and peering open-mouthed over the ledge. "Are they dead?" He asked quietly, unable to take his eyes off the masses of soldiers lying motionless on the ground, faces all turned up to the gray sky.

"Just unconscious," Tony replied, "they'll be back in a minute or two."

Steve gazed out at the silenced battlefield. "The guys at the far end are stirring." He sounded relieved.

"My friends," Thor boomed over the comm, "our reprieve is but brief. The troops around me are rousing from their slumber. I require assistance!"

"Figures," Tony said to Steve, "the guys inside the tower didn't take a direct hit. They're recovering faster." He opened his arms and Steve leaned into him, ready to fly. "Coming, Thor!" Tony yelled.


	14. Into Darkness

When they touched down, they were met with a haggard, gasping Thor and a horde of petrified foot soldiers running like hell back to the convoy. "They have given up the fight," Thor panted as he collapsed onto an overturned shelf, shutting his eyes and exhaling deeply.

"Not yet," said Steve, "they're falling back for now, but there'll be a second wave of attacks after Ross adapts his strategy. He's trying to wear us down, and when he does, the ground forces will flood in and search every inch of this place for Bruce." His face fell. "And they just might find him now he's left the underground lab. He doesn't have a comm, does he?"

"No," said Tony, "and neither does Betty."

"Who said my name?" Asked Betty from somewhere close by. "Tony? Are you in there?"

She stepped into the hall and Bruce followed, himself again and looking like death, wearing nothing but her sweater tied around his hips. His eyes widened at the sight of Steve's leg. "What happened?" He asked, voice slow and groggy.

Before anyone could answer, an unfamiliar voice punched through the air. "That's Banner! Get him!"

Everyone sprang into action, scanning the area for the enemy, but two gunshots and a loud thump later a helmet-clad head, bleeding from the mouth, fell into view in the doorway. Pepper stepped over the body, one smoking Beretta held in each hand.

"Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker, Pepper," said Tony, "if I had any kind of authority around here whatsoever, I would fire you."

"You're welcome," Pepper replied. "Jane tasered the other three, and I don't see any more of them." She eyed the dead soldier warily. "Is it—is the fighting over now?"

She was answered by a deafening noise and a great tremor that tore chunks of plaster loose from the ceiling, dust and white flakes raining down on their heads. "Damn it," Steve growled, "more rockets. He's gearing up for another attack. There are too many of them and not enough of us—we're running out of options."

Jane appeared, giant taser in hand, and said, "I have an idea. We can use the Bifrost."

"Yes, of course," said Thor, standing up, "we shall harness the power of the aether storm and vanquish the enemy!"

"The power of the what?" Steve asked.

"When the Bifrost opens," Jane explained, "there's a huge release of energy. It usually dissipates over time, but I can recalibrate the rig to discharge it as a focused blast—" she tipped her head towards the window—"at them. It'll destroy all their equipment, but I don't think anyone will be harmed."

"Bruce," Thor said, "allow me to convey you to Asgard. You will be safe from this General Ross there, for the time being. We may return after our friends have conferred with your kings and lifted this ridiculous bounty from your head."

"Actually, that could take a while," Jane mused, lost in space again. "The returning thing, I mean, not the, the bounty thing. Because the bridge is in a metastable state; the localized spacetime pockets will collapse as you cross them, like thin ice on a lake. Until we get it stabilized again, it could be a one-way trip."

"It's our best option for now," Steve reasoned, raising his voice to be heard over the relentless artillery barrage. "Ross will go to the end of the earth to track you down. While you're in Asgard, we can lay down some false leads and—"

"No," Bruce cut him off, "I'm not running. I'm done running." For a moment the veins on his neck seemed to jump, pulsing with dark green blood. "I'm going out there to rip his head off."

"Stop," said Tony, "Bruce, listen. Since the Chitauri, you've only hulked out, what, twice? Three times including today? And how many innocent bystanders have you smashed? That's right: zero. That's a solid track record." The words flew from his mouth at rapid-fire boardroom velocity. He hoped the Hulk wouldn't take over while Bruce waited for him to make his point. "I have the world's most competent and most expensive legal team on speed dial. We'll take it to Washington and get Ross off your back for good. And let's not forget, he's made SHIELD mad at him too; we can use that to our advantage. But I guarantee you," he added, "if you kill him right now you're fucked, because on some level that's what he _wants_. Suicide by Hulk. It'll prove he was right about you, that you can't control yourself, that you're a danger to everyone. A menace. He'll go down with a smile knowing his death will give the world a taste for your blood."

"He tortured me. He's destroying the tower," Bruce protested, sounding small and desperate. He stared at Steve's leg, then at Steve's masked, pallid face. "He _shot_ you. He deserves to...he deserves to die..."

"Please, Bruce, this is the best way," Pepper implored, "even _Tony_ is taking the long view here."

Bruce took a deep, shuddering breath. "Fine," he said, "fine. We'll do it your way."

The air shook with fragmenting shells and a collective sigh of relief. "We'll go to the roof to open the portal," said Jane, "we're going to need all the power the main arc reactor can give us. Someone has to be in the control room to throw the switch."

"I'm on it," said Pepper.

Steve got up with some help from a hand on the wall, his right leg trembling and twitching. "I'll go ahead of you and make sure the way is clear."

"Thor, Bruce," said Betty abruptly, "if this is a one-way trip, you're not leaving without me." Her voice and her eyes were steel. "I'm officially dead on this planet. I gave my life up to be with you. Don't think for a second that I'm not coming too."

Everyone departed, leaving Tony standing around in the hall like a decorative suit of armor from the future. On his own, he couldn't go out there and bring the fight to Ross, so there was nothing to do but wait and watch the masonry crumble around him.

"Anytime you're ready," said Pepper over the comm.

"Now!" Yelled Jane.

Dust and smoke blackened the air. The explosions rang like bells.

"It's done," Jane said quietly, "they're gone. The aether storm is coming. Tony, are you clear of the blast radius?"

"I'm clear," he confirmed.

Moments later, a blue, annihilating light came streaming from the roof of the tower and engulfed the enemy forces in its brilliance. Tony barely had time to entertain a hypothesis about Cherenkov radiation before his HUD flashed _CRITICAL POWER FAILURE_ at him and winked out like a dead star. The internal climate control system failed next, cutting off with a mechanical whine, and then the low buzz of the comm in his ear was gone, leaving one split second of silent nothing followed by the unfiltered, too-loud, too-quiet sound of screaming from outside.

 _No_ , Tony thought frantically, _this can't be happening_! EMP attacks were such an obvious vulnerability for his arc reactor, for his body, that he'd patched that hole in his very first upgrade after Afghanistan. There was no way Ross's lightning gun could have drained the power like this. He could rotate the frequency for a hundred years and the reactor wouldn't so much as flicker, unless—

Unless the pulse interacted with another field in just the right way at just the right time. It would take an absolutely cosmic level of interference, and now that he thought about it, the energetic fallout from forcing open a hole in spacetime would probably do it. _Unknown unknowns_. Goddamn it, Bruce.

Tony stood helplessly as his gauntlets melted from his arms, coalescing into spheres once more and rolling away, dull and exhausted. Piece by piece, the armor spalled off his body and crashed to the floor in useless chunks. His eyes crossed and his back arched painfully as his muscles contracted against his will, and he teetered sideways, beginning to topple. He tried put his hands out to catch himself, but he couldn't move them. He couldn't move anything. Legs, arms, neck, head, all his muscles were arrested by current, limbs hyperextended like overloaded cantilevers, fingers and toes curled into claws. This was the arc reactor's reboot cycle, using residual power to trigger a chain reaction and shock itself back to life. Except the current was escaping into Tony's body instead of feeding back into the loop. Zap and pause, zap and pause.

He hit the ground with a thump, felt something wet seeping from the side of his head. His shout for help died in his spasming throat. Get it out, get it out, he had to get the reactor out so it would stop shocking him. He had to get up, find Steve, find his backup reactor, maybe do something about his cracked skull. He scrabbled at his chest, but each shock flung his arms wide before he could get hold of the casing. It was no use. Every move he made was undone seconds later in a cascade of electrical signals.

Time escaped from Tony as he lay there amid the ruins of his tower, body jerking and spasming to the regular zaps of his arc reactor. It would run itself down soon, it had to. This place was a long way from the control room, but Steve and Pepper should be back any minute now. He just had to hold on and not die of a heart attack before they found him.

A pair of boots emerged from the haze and came to a halt in front of his face. They weren't bloody. They weren't Steve's.

Ross's voice sounded different in person. "Tony Stark," he said from somewhere up above, "what happened to you? Once, you sold me a fine weapon to use against the Hulk. Now you turn your back on the weapons business, throw in your lot with the mutants and monsters. I'm disappointed."

That was nothing new. Tony seemed to disappoint everyone.

"You did a number on my troops, " Ross continued, "but this is the end of the line. I've wasted enough time here. I suggest you take the easy way out and tell me where Banner's hiding." He extended a foot and rolled Tony over, leaning forward, breathing on him. "I promise you, you won't like the hard way."

If only Tony's nerves and muscles would listen to him long enough to produce a defiant glare. "He's. Gone. You'll. Never. Find. Him," he coughed out between shocks. It felt so gratifying, the sound of those words, the sight of red-hot rage twisting the General's face, but Tony's glee was short-lived. A boot came down on his head, another stomped on his stomach, and the sound of his own voice calling Steve's name in an infinite loop was the last thing he remembered before he gave way to the encroaching oblivion.

The blackout seemed to last mere seconds. Tony woke, gagging and retching, to an unfamiliar room with a brown-stained floor, boxed in by walls that had been scrubbed to gleaming and smelled heavily of chlorine. He tried to breathe through the shock, to ride out the wave of panic that hit him as he realized he was chained up here. Every muscle in his body pounded with a deep ache, the aftermath of the cyclic contractions forced upon them by the reactor's desperate attempts to revive itself. Lance-points of sharp pain jabbed at his head and his ribs. He'd been kicked there, he remembered, but why was his left arm hurting too? Tony looked down, and his heart sank when he saw it: a bloody gash splitting the skin where his transponder used to be.


	15. Translucence

He knows where Tony is.

Steve knows where Ross has taken Tony, where he's holding him captive, where he's most likely hurting him, _torturing_ him. And he can't do a damn thing about it.

He paces back and forth in front of Nick Fury's office, waiting impatiently as Clint and Natasha plead their case inside. It's been almost four weeks since the battle; they've come down a long road to get here. When the spies came slinking back to the tower hours after everything had ended, Steve had nothing to say to them—partly because he'd shouted himself hoarse searching for Tony in the wreckage, and partly because he was frothing mad at both of them. It wasn't rational, it wasn't fair, but he'd lost the fight. He'd lost _Tony_. His anger was all he had left, seething and bubbling, boiling him alive.

"Steve, please wait," Natasha shouted, trotting to keep up with him as he stormed through what remained of his floor. There had to be something here that he could fix, something he could do to make things better right now, even by just a little.

"We didn't want to leave," said Clint, "but we had to go back to HQ and report on the situation. They wouldn't let us down from the chopper. I asked."

"They did say we were free to jump if we wanted to," Natasha said, and added, "without chutes."

Steve had heard enough. He stopped and wheeled around, pivoting on his good leg, and both of them stepped on the brakes to avoid running into him. "I don't want to hear your excuses. You two abandoned the team when the team needed you most. That's all I need to know."

They all stood there and stared at each other, and then Clint whispered, "I jumped." He undid his belt and slid his pants down his hips, revealing an angry swath of road rash. Natasha reached over and hiked up his vest. There was more. It went all the way up his side. "Or I tried to. Bungee arrow," Clint explained, "and a skyscraper got in the way."

Steve gaped at the sight, cringing despite himself. "You need to get that cleaned and dressed," were somehow the first words to fall out of his mouth.

"They tried to drag him into medical, but we got the reporting done and came back as fast as we could," said Natasha. "I didn't think things would get this bad. Steve, I'm so, so sorry."

"If you hadn't left, we would've won," Steve murmured. He was trying very hard to stay angry, because without this rage to fuel him he was pretty sure he'd drop dead from despair. He wasn't even sure what he meant by 'won'. Seeing as he'd had to choose between surrendering his friend and most likely committing treason, today had pretty much been a no-win scenario.

Shortly after that, Pepper arrived with takeout food, which she more or less had to force down Steve's throat. She wouldn't give up until he'd eaten his fill, and if her hands were hurting she didn't mention it once. For hours she'd dug through the rubble looking for Tony—or Tony's body—and now she licked the salt and oil from her raw, bleeding fingers, gathered up the empty bags, and told him not to give up hope. Steve marveled at her strength. He hoped she had enough for both of them. For all of them.

It wasn't long before the first media crew showed up. Reporters began trespassing by their dozens, pointing their cameras at the ruined hallways, the rocket craters, the blood. Steve didn't have enough fight left in him to do anything about it, but some posturing and threatening looks from Clint and Natasha sent most of them scurrying. By evening, the battle was all over the news. It's been weeks and weeks of shaky smartphone footage and pundits flapping their gums about who the real villains are, and it makes Steve want to throw up every time he passes by a television.

"No one's seen Tony Stark or Iron Man since the dust-up at the Avengers Tower. The man loves the limelight; it's ridiculous to think he's been laying low all this while. I think it's time to face the facts: Tony Stark is dead. And if it was the United States Army that killed him, I say they need to answer for it."

"I think you're jumping to conclusions. What about the sightings in Aleppo and Cairo? The debris found in Bucharest?"

"Oh, that could be anything. We've heard hundreds of eyewitness reports and not a single one of them has been confirmed. And have you seen some of these theories on the Internet? People are saying Stark drank himself to death, or he caught syphilis from sleeping around. Syphilis! But given the timing of everything, the simplest explanation is—"

"Let's not get off track. See, what I want to know is, were the other Avengers involved in that fight? Somebody needs to do something about these people!"

"That's no way to talk about the heroes who saved us all from—"

"No, he's got a point. You know, if the army killed him, maybe they had a good reason. You can't let someone with power like that run amok. Who knows what he was building in that tower? It could be our brave men and women died in there saving our country from something terrible."

"Then why doesn't the army come out and say it instead of releasing vague statements about nothing?"

On and on, on and on. Everyone, ardent fan and archenemy alike, wants answers. Evidence. The tower is an open wound on the landscape for all and sundry to come and gawk at. People send flowers, cards, and twenty-page handwritten conspiracy theories. It's like a fog over New York, this cleft without words, this void of uncertain grief. For everyone who brands the Avengers monsters, there are hundreds who love Tony still, and they're hurting.

Steve's not sure any of them will ever hurt as badly as he did in those first few hours. No one knows the blind panic that gripped his heart when they first found the Iron Man armor in pieces, scattered in a human shape like a chalk outline, empty. While Steve and Pepper searched and called, Jane brought JARVIS back, and he opened his hundred eyes and saw nothing. And Steve knew AIs didn't have feelings, but he swore he was disconsolate.

Later in the evening, when he found himself alone, he turned his head up to the ceiling. "JARVIS, what's wrong?"

"Wrong, Captain? Dr. Foster has done an adequate job of restoring my systems. My multi-level scans of the area are progressing at the expected pace."

"I don't mean your systems, JARVIS, I mean _you_."

He was quiet for a while. "I am charged with protecting Master Stark, the tower, and all of its inhabitants," he answered finally, "and I have failed utterly in my duty. It is as Sir often says to Dum-E: 'you had _one_ job'."

"Hey, no," said Steve, waving his hands and wishing there was a face or a lens or something he could look into when he spoke. "Don't talk like that. The power went out, you were down for the count. Just like those soldiers who got hit with the area disruptor—all they could do was lie down and stare at the sky. It wasn't your fault."

"You are too kind, Captain, but—oh, I say. What's this?"

Steve swallowed down the lump in his throat. "What's what?"

"Something has appeared on the scans," JARVIS said. "You see, Master Stark's arc reactor emits a distinct energy signature, which slowly fades with time. It follows him wherever he goes—like a ghost, one might say, invisible to all but me. I see no traces of that signature now, but I have picked up a much weaker, periodic signal."

"Is it him?" Steve asked, spine prickling.

"I have eliminated all other possibilities. From my analysis of the attenuation pattern, this signal is at least four hours old. It originates from the area where you say you discovered the armor pieces. I am reconstructing the path taken by—wait, there is something else! Refactoring calculations now—"

Had Tony taught JARVIS the art of suspense, or was this just an AI being an AI? Either way, Steve felt as though he would explode from anxiety. "What is it?"

"I monitor Sir's vital signs at all times," JARVIS replied, "and should anything happen to him whilst I am online, I will know at once. But I am missing hours of real-time data now, and I cannot tell you for sure if he is dead or alive." A holographic projection of the downstairs hallway appeared in front of Steve, and he jumped a little. JARVIS continued, "I have, however, isolated a disturbance in the dust on the floor near his last known location. If one assumes it indicates a set of footprints, then they form a trail that correlates highly with the vector of Sir's movement. All in all, I believe there is a strong probability that Master Stark has been captured by the enemy."

Captured. Steve took a long breath. Captured was bad, but it wasn't as bad as dead.

"Steve!" Natasha burst into the room with Clint close behind. "JARVIS told us what he found. There's still a chance. We have to act quickly."

"So now we're 'we' again," Steve uttered bitterly, "until the next time SHIELD needs you." He still blamed them. He knew he shouldn't.

"Look," said Clint with an exasperated noise, "we fucked up. We let you down. I get it. I'm not asking you to forgive me; I'm asking you to go on a rescue mission with me. We're talking about _saving Tony_ here. I'm still on your team, Steve. I always will be."

"That goes double for me," said Natasha. "You don't have to forgive me either, but you have to know I stand with you now, and I will do everything in my power to get him back and make things right."

And that was how it happened. Weeks of spying on satellite surveillance, CCTV footage, cargo manifests, and government databases, and now they have the locations of dozens of secret military sites. They have the layout, air ducts and all, of the only one that matters. They have smoke grenades, grappling hooks, and a dizzying array of firearms. They have three pairs of tied hands.

"Ross was authorized to capture Bruce," Clint explained, "and to interrogate anyone who might have information on his whereabouts. Everything's legit. It could have easily been you or me instead of Tony."

"The law's not on our side," said Natasha bluntly, "if we charge in and grab him and run, they'll find us. They'll throw us in a torture chamber too, and it would all be perfectly legal."

Steve fumed with the rage of the powerless. He wanted to punch a hole through the window, through the wall, through the very earth.

"But we've found a loophole," Natasha said.

"It'll be a good one, if it works," Clint added. "We'll turn Ross's own scheme around on him."

"We couldn't locate the SHIELD captive he took that day," said Natasha, "and we found out later he'd gone through official channels to—" she fished for a word—"to requisition him from SHIELD. Legally, General Ross owned Mr. Blue as of that morning. It's a mystery to me why he decided to shoot the helicopters instead of explaining the situation."

"He did the paperwork and transfered custody of Mr. Blue from SHIELD over to the army," Clint told Steve, "and we're going to do the opposite for Bruce. It would void the order for his capture, which means Tony would have to be released right away."

"Wait," said Steve, "hold up, so Bruce will go from being army property to being SHIELD property? How is that an improvement? Have you forgotten they built a cage to drop him from thirty thousand feet?"

Clint clicked his tongue. "That's the tough part. SHIELD would have to take on the responsibility for, uh, 'containing' him. But they could also decide he doesn't _need_ containing. We just have to convince Fury and Hill there won't be another Harlem if Bruce walks free."

"Sounds like a real gamble," Steve frowned.

"Maybe, but we're holding aces," Clint replied. "We did some digging. Turns out Ross and SHIELD go way back; he's been on their radar since Desert Storm."

"Most of the records have been expunged," said Natasha, "but it seems he led an unauthorized strike in a city where a group of SHIELD agents were operating. He didn't know that, of course, but he was aware the area was off-limits. The agents and the soldiers were discovered by enemy forces. Thirty casualties. Doesn't say from which factions."

"The dossier says he's a loose cannon," Clint added. "SHIELD doesn't like how he does whatever he wants and and gets away with it because of his rank. And they don't want him getting hold of Bruce's DNA and creating an army of Hulks."

"So why hasn't anyone _done_ anything?" Steve demanded, perplexed.

"Priorities," was Natasha's considered and diplomatic answer.

"That, and Ross knows a few of SHIELD's own dirty little secrets," said Clint, "they're kind of deadlocked."

Steve chewed on his lip. "This plan of yours—Bruce is the fall guy."

"Whatever SHIELD decides for him will be preferable to vivisection by army surgeons," Natasha answered flatly. "Do you want to save Tony or don't you?"

It was the only thing Steve wanted.

Now, he waits. The heels of his shoes tap out a loud, echoing rhythm on the marble floor. These tiles could have been a Roman sculpture in another time and place. Steve's read in books that those ancient statues were originally painted in all kinds of bright colors; the pigments wear away over the centuries until all that's left is translucent white and recesses of gray where the light doesn't reach.

A bolt shifts. The reinforced steel double doors creak open. "They said yes," announces Clint, "and no cages for Bruce, either." He brandishes a sheaf of paper at Steve, who can only stare back with his jaw hanging open. He didn't think it would be this easy. It makes his head spin, the way one signature changes everything. How do the Avengers have the might to level a city, and yet the stroke of a pen is all it takes to fracture them, to glue them back together? Fury probably does this all the time, dealing human beings back and forth like a trader on Wall Street. Imaginary money, imaginary lives.

"Steve?" Natasha prompts, "are you having a seizure?"

He tries to collect himself and asks her, hoarse-voiced, "what now?"

"The clerks are sending the paperwork to General Ross. He has 48 hours to deliver Tony to us."

"I'm not waiting that long," says Steve.

Clint grins. "Thought you'd say that. The Quinjet's ready. Let's roll."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confused by the tenses in this chapter? Good, me too.


	16. Drifting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter this time, but the next one should be pretty long.

Sometimes Tony's convinced he's dead and this is limbo. He's trapped here, doomed to oscillate forever between torture and false rescue, screaming pain and illusory relief. This is a world of uncountable infinities. His mind's partitions fold up into the higher dimensions, leaving days, years, and universes melting together under the baking sun while the cardinal numbers scuttle like scorpions over the crest of a distant dune. He can't even say for certain now how many fingers and toes he has. He remembers a few of them were chopped off and fed to him, maybe last week or maybe next century, somewhere along his shifts and cycles between the layers of reality. He remembers breaking free of his chains and choking Ross to death. He remembers both of them plunging headlong into a black hole; the singularity was moist and soft to the touch, the event horizon lined with teeth.

His body is a fragile thing, a bruised and bleeding patchwork. He doesn't spend much time in it. Palladium overruns his veins, eating away at his flesh, following him from world to world like a shadow. And it figures, it fucking figures that the one time Tony tries to do something good, the one time he puts himself on the line to save someone else, he ends up slowly dying of heavy metal poisoning while locked in a torture chamber with a violent, unhinged lunatic.

It's not even about the information anymore. Tony knows. He can read Ross like a book because they're so alike. It's about pride, about winning, about having everything to prove. It's a battle of wills now, and every time Tony holds out on him, they both come a little more unglued.

"General Ross," calls a muffled voice from the other side of the blast door, "this is SHIELD. Open up!" Oh, good. It's time for Tony's regularly scheduled rescue fantasy. It's so hard to tell where one universe ends and the next begins.

Sterns looks up from his monitor. His eyes are wide with fear. "Why didn't anyone sound the alarm?"

"No one left alive to sound the alarm," Ross spits, and pushes a button on the intercom. "SHIELD," he snarls, "you made a mistake coming here. We had a deal."

"Deal?" It's Clint's voice. "I'd call it more of a stalemate."

"And you're ready to break it? I warn you," Ross rumbles, "if you spooks want to keep your secrets secret, you'll leave now."

"Be reasonable, General," says Natasha, distorted by static, "I don't think you really want to find out whose mail is blacker. Remember, we _are_ spies."

Ross makes a furious, strangled kind of sound..

"Never mind, we're not here for that," Clint says sharply, "we've come for Tony Stark." And this is weird; when Tony hallucinates Clint, there's usually less talking and more shooting. "Open the door," he repeats, "and don't try anything. We're armed."

"You have no right," Ross raves, "you have no right to barge in here and kill my security patrol and—"

Steve's voice cracks through the intercom loud and clear as a whip. Tony snaps his head towards the speaker and forgets to breathe. "Your men are unharmed, General. They let us in. We're not here to fight you, we just have some papers you need to look at."

Ross hesitates a while before jerking his head at Sterns, who opens some locks, pulls some deadbolts, and enters some passwords. The door shifts open a fraction. A fistful of paper shoves its way through the gap. Tony must have slipped into a parallel universe where everyone is a bureaucrat or a pacifist or both, because by this point there are generally a lot more explosions and decapitations.

He starts to drift again. Everything feels a little less real, everyone moves as if rotoscoped. Tony's watching a video of a video of a video: Sterns flipping through the papers and faltering, babbling about his research; Ross emitting a guttural roar and stalking out of the room; Natasha shouting "checkmate!" after him in the most vitriolic sing-song tone that Tony's ever heard; Steve taking a key and undoing his cuffs, and the world undoing itself.

 _Don't go, don't go._ Tony fights the drift, fights desperately against the current. He'll stay in this world until it rots away like the rest. It isn't real, but what does it matter when he has Steve's arms around him, pulsing and warm? He clings to Steve's chest with his all his meager strength, drinking in the weight and solidity of him. _An anchor, like an anchor. Are you made of iron too?_

But it's no good. Tony can't fight it any longer. His nerves uproot, his senses detach, and he's thrown back to the portal-space where he waits between bodies and worlds, a tunnel of lightless nothing.


	17. Home

There's no gravity here, no time, no space. Nothing is relative.

His next jump is a short one. It feels like breaking the surface just long enough to suck in a breath before sinking back into the deep. Water in his eyes and nose like sludge that won't shake off. Blurred shapes and vague noises. Steve? Pepper? His mouth won't open. His body is made of lead.

The second time is the same, and by the third jump Tony's afraid he's stuck like this. With a grunt of effort he strikes out with his arms and legs, flailing at the insubstantial world. There must be _something_ he can touch somewhere inside this fugue-mirage. His hands grasp at empty air, but his foot collides with something hard and he's rewarded with a tingle of pain. His skeleton conducts the impact into his skull and it's sound, _real_ sound. Yes. Yes! He doesn't know what the thing by his foot is but he kicks it again. He kicks it again and again, heedless of the pain shooting up and down the bones in his leg, because he's found something solid. It's real, it's _real_.

Never mind that Tony's definition of 'real' is much looser than it used to be.

He keeps hammering away with his foot, and something about the motion and the noise and the pain is waking the rest of his body up. He's suddenly aware of his own weight and of the earth below him. Breath inflating his lungs, sensation burning from his palms to the tips of his twitching fingers. Senses coming into focus. White ceiling, tasteful chandelier, sounds as sharp as knives. A voice.

"Tony, I heard something, are you awa—oh god, what are you doing?" A hand on his knee stills his thrashing, a finger on his foot lights a fire under his nerves. "You've broken your toe. Tony, can you hear me? Can you say something?"

He knows that voice. In any universe, in every universe, he knows that voice. "Steve."

"Oh, _Tony_." He's suddenly swallowed up in arms and chest and neck. This smell is Steve, there's no mistaking it. Some of the places he goes, everyone smells wrong, but this is a good world. He wants to stay. How long does he have here before the current comes for him again?

"Don't go, don't go," Tony mumbles.

"I'm not going anywhere," says Steve. "We're home. It's over. You're safe." He glances at Tony's foot. Tony's line of sight follows. He's lying on a couch, he realizes, and he's not wearing any shoes. Two of his toes are crunched together, angling out like broken fence posts, blood crusting around the nails. There are streaks of red on the nearby coffee table. "What happened?" Steve asks, face twisting with worry, "did your leg, did it jerk involuntarily? What did he _do_ to you in there? If there's muscle damage, neuron damage, Tony, I promise, we'll find a way to fix it."

He's talking faster and faster, pitch climbing. Tony tries to make a stop sign with his hand. "I kicked it," he answers.

"On purpose?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because it was real."

That gets him a blank look.

"I keep slipping away, Steve," Tony whispers hoarsely. "Everything was all underwater. Everything was all van Gogh. I was afraid the world was stuck that way." The air goes out of his voice halfway through his sentence. Steve produces a glass of water from somewhere and holds the straw up to Tony's lips. He's trying to understand. He doesn't understand. "Where's Natasha?" Tony asks, "tell her, tell her I need more lithium dioxide."

"Okay. Okay, I'll tell her," says Steve. He doesn't even ask what for.

This Steve isn't the real Steve. He's only a dream, a dream of matter, a dream of having mass and occupying space. He's not really here, but he's so _here_ it makes Tony want to cry. He wants to reach out and hold him; he tries to sit up, and it sets off a coal mine disaster in his lungs. Dream-Steve lunges forward at once, cradling his body through the wheezing and the violent tremors. He lays him back down and kneels on the floor, clasps Tony's hand tight just like the real Steve would.

They're eye to eye. Those eyes. That blue. With bruised fingers Tony strokes those broad palms like a blind man reading a novel. These are the hands he remembers, this is the face, the _voice_. A thread of hope curls like a hookworm in his gut. Does he dare to think it? Has he landed at home this time? Can it be—Earth prime, reality of realities?

The sides of his nose are damp with the tears squeezed out by his coughing fit. He looks up at Steve and asks, "are you real?"

"Tony, what—of course I'm real." Steve looks confused, a little hurt.

Tony replies, "if you say so," and slips under again, because consciousness is fucking exhausting.

They develop a system. Whenever Tony comes to, JARVIS calls Steve, who appears and guides him through the fog and answers his barrage of questions. _What day is it? How long since our last check-in? How long have I been back? How'd you get me out? Where's Phil?_ The answers have been consistent so far. This sitting room, tucked away in an unused floor of the tower far from noises and surprises, has been consistent so far. Tony's counted the crystals in the chandelier: always 134. This world is continuous, internally consistent. Real or not-real, there are worse places to be stuck.

The team didn't take him to the hospital. It would have sparked a frenzy, cameras and assassins ringing round his bed all the day. He doesn't need a hospital anyhow. Save the poison in his heart, none of the damage goes much deeper than skin, and skin always knits itself together like rock, like earth. Trenches, faults, and ridges push up through the decaying cells; his body is an alien landscape now, a cage for something terrible that consumes it from the inside.

Days pass in the gray smudge of Manhattan's dying winter. JARVIS and Jarvis speak to Tony while he sleeps. Steve fills his IV bag and changes his bandages with practiced hands, listens to him ramble about deserts and dreams. Tony tells him the places he's been, all the things he's seen, and Steve just nods sadly and holds him and repeats, "you're home now," like a chant.

Everyone visits. They sit by his side and hold his hand and say reassuring things, but Tony is far away, so far away. He is with them only in the sense that the avalanche is with the mountain.

Pepper senses it, and she brings him a new stack of financial reports every day, something for his mind to chew on. Clint shows up with a tablet loaded with games and spends an afternoon letting Tony win. Between the animation frames, Tony interrogates him on everything that happened while he was gone, what the team did, what they know. He has to fill in the blanks, he has to collect all the variables.

Natasha comes, talks, leaves. She doesn't give him the lithium dioxide.

"Steve, I need it," Tony gasps.

"Nat told me it's an antidote for heavy metal poisoning—which you don't have," Steve replies, as gently as he can.

Tony drags his collar down and traces the turgid, blackened veins radiating from the reactor. "What do you call this, then?" He demands.

Steve blinks. "Tony, that's your heart. That's your light."

 _Oh, fuck off, Steve, you know what I'm pointing at._ Tony grabs his hand and presses it to his chest, skin on skin, and insists, "no, _this_." He tilts his chin to look down further, and it sends shooting pains up the back of his neck. He cringes on reflex.

"Don't," says Steve, "don't move your head like that, your tendons need to heal."

Tony's not having it. "Bathroom," he orders, "mirror. Now."

Steve hesitates a second, skeptical worried, torn. That's what Tony's always liked about him: his face hides nothing. Eventually he caves and helps Tony to his feet, one arm holding him up as he staggers along, the other wheeling the IV stand behind them.

Shit, it's spreading so fast. Festering. It's worse than Tony thought. It's even more obvious here under the bright lights. Suppurating lesions, capillaries like frayed wires. He'll catch fire from one stray spark. He shoves his face up to the mirror and pushes an eyelid up with one finger. Clusters of ink-blue in his sclera like spider eggs, like snowflakes.

"Here," he says, "look."

"I'm not seeing anything," Steve says quietly.

Tony lets his eyelid drop. He glares at Steve's reflection. "Are you fucking with me?"

Steve looks away. "I was going to ask you the same question."

"This is a really bad time to fuck with me," Tony pleads.

"Tony, I told you, I'm not—!"

"Do you want me to die?" Tony whispers.

Steve's eyes go all crooked. His mouth trembles. "How can you _say_ that?"

"I'll die if you don't get me the lithium dioxide."

"You'll die if I do!" Steve cries. "It's a toxin all on its own—if there's no palladium around, it'll rip your white blood cells apart!"

For fuck's sake. How is Steve not _seeing_ this? Tony groans in frustration and drops down on the edge of the bathtub. He claws at his wrists, but the palladium has worn his nails to blunt, brittle stumps. He ignores Steve's demands to explain himself. He raises his arm to his mouth and bares his teeth. He'll flood the room with black blood, and he'll know.

Steve bats his wrist away and grabs his face, jerks it towards him. He thinks nothing of Tony's tendons now. Those eyes, that blue, drilling into his skull. "Tony, stop! What are you _doing_?"

"Look at my blood. You'll see it in the—"

"I've seen enough of your blood!" Steve erupts. "I've seen too much of your fucking blood! Do you even know what kind of shape you're in right now? When we found you in that cell I wanted to cry, I wanted to throw up. The bastard flayed you like an animal! There were _pieces_ hanging off of you, Tony, you left half of you behind on that wall and those chains. You weren't moving a muscle. I thought you were _dead_. I'll be happy if I never see a drop of your blood again."

Oh. Oh, no. This is how it starts, this is always how it starts. Pity and charity and the promise of a life cotton wool and analgesia. The clamor of alarm bells in Tony's head is deafening. He's in the wrong reality after all. This is how it comes apart.

Somewhere out there his real body is lashed to a railed bed, twitching and drooling and wasting away.

He slides to the floor and curls up into a ball. Instantly, Steve is down at his side. "Tony, what is it? What did I say?"

"I was so sure," Tony chokes, "I was so sure this time."

Steve grips his shoulders, gazes warily at his face. "Sure of what?"

Tony pulls away from his touch. "It doesn't matter," he says with a pathetic little laugh, "I'll be gone soon. You'll be gone soon." He's breaching the critical point. When the cracks start to show and the world goes wrong, it's like waking up from a dream. It means he's already started to drift. He shuts his eyes against the current rushing in his ears.

Dream-Steve should be first to fade, but he's still here somehow, and here as in solid, not here as in a Doppler ghost. He tightens his hold on Tony. The air warms as he crowds into his space. "No," he insists, "I'm not leaving, and _you are not dying_. Do you hear me?"

Tony doesn't open his eyes. He knows what he'll see: the mirror melting like mercury and running down the wall, the chrome of the taps going soft and waxy, the tub shattering into a whirl of immaterial fragments that fly through him like holograms. He hugs his knees to his chest and waits for Dream-Steve to disintegrate, for his words to vanish into the roar of the tide.

But he keeps talking. Stubborn. "I know it looks bad, Tony. I know it hurts, and it's going to hurt for a long time, but you'll heal. I wish I could make it better, I wish I could make the pain stop. God, I wish, I wish I could..." Tony feels him take his hand and plaster it against his perfect face, his fluttering throat. Warm skin. Still here. So stubborn. "I wish I could give you this," Steve says, "the serum. The healing factor."

"You can't fix it," Tony replies, and despite himself, despite the surging waves, he opens his eyes for one last look at Steve. His next world could be another hell. Take a picture. Put it in a locket. Remember.

He glances up. The mirror is still here. The room is intact. The waves are out of phase and he's drowning in air. Steve anchors him here in this tar pit universe. "Let me go," whimpers Tony, "please, let me go. I have to find my world, my team, _my_ Steve—" he touches his chest—"before this kills me."

Steve hauls Tony up onto his lap. He's doing the breathing thing. It's not working. "Tony, your heart will do me in long before that."

"You want me to die," he mumbles into Steve's neck.

Steve's pulse jumps. A tremor arcs down both of those strong arms, vibrating through Tony's layers of bandages, dressings, and tape. "I'm doing everything I can to stop you dying," Steve says.

"You want me to die," Tony repeats, "you aren't real anyway." If he can convince himself it's true, then maybe he can break away, swim back to his portal void, and try for reality again.

Steve stares at him, tears shining in his eyes. He unfolds their bodies and stands up, straightens out the IV line, and pulls Tony to his feet. Tony's body, his false body, is compliant as a puppet. Steve drags him to the mirror, which is flat and smooth like glass and not at all like mercury, and says, "look. It's me. I promise it's me. I'm real. I won't turn into Loki. It's Sunday the tenth, you've been home for four days, Nat and Clint saved you with a legal loophole, Phil was killed in action last year on the Helicarrier." He recites their desperate litany like an Asgardian magic spell.

But it's not enough, it's not sufficient, it's not proof. The test is imperfect. The test needs more parameters. "I'd stay here with you if it wasn't for this," says Tony's reflection, whose skin crawls with spiders. Steve's reflection, washed out and hollow, gazes back at him like nothing's wrong. "Get me the antidote," he tries again, "the palladium's going to dissolve my kidneys and lungs, I'll drown from the inside out, I'll die, I'll die if I don't go home."

Steve grits his teeth, draws back a fist, and punches Tony across the jaw.

"Stop saying you'll die!" He yells, tears streaming down his face. Layers on layers of echoes crash on the walls and splinter like porcelain. "Don't you know what that _does_ to me? When we tracked you down, Clint and Nat and JARVIS and I, we didn't know, we had no way of knowing until the last minute if he'd already killed you. If you'd goaded him into it. I prayed you wouldn't."

Tony only half-hears him. He's been thrown back to a steaming July day in a beat-up boxing gym, switchblade tarantella to the sound of cracking bone.

"I couldn't sleep, I made myself sick," Steve continues between ragged breaths, "I had nightmares about breaking into the compound and finding your corpse with your light out. Pepper had to make me eat. I lived like that for almost a _month_ , Tony, and I thought—I thought getting you back would be the end of it—" he breaks off, pupils slowly focusing again, staring at the red smear on his knuckles. He lifts his head slowly and looks at Tony in the mirror, tooth poking out, lip split, flap of skin dangling like a pennant.

Tony brings a trembling finger up to wipe his mouth. It's red. It glistens. It stings. It's a compass point, a laser target, a beacon screaming through infinite space.

"Oh fuck," Steve breathes, blanching in horror, "oh fuck, I hit you, oh god, and you're, while you're like this." He turns the tap on and runs his bloody hand under it. "Fuck, fuck, I'm a terrible person. Tony, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. Let me get a towel, let me get some bandages." He falls to the floor and rummages through the cabinets, dripping fat tears on the grout.

But Tony's lost in the mirror now. He sucks the blood down, bitter blue spider taste, and tongues the broken skin. He tries a grin and his reflection grins right back at him, gaping and gruesome. "So you haven't seen enough of my blood after all," he slurs.

Steve gets up slowly, one hand clutching a limp towel. "What did you say?"

"You said," Tony replies, "you said you never wanted to see my blood again." Each word flings a fresh volley of little red droplets through the air; they splatter on the sink, on the mirror, on Steve's nose.

"I meant, not like _this_!" Steve stammers, flustered, "not when someone else has hurt you, not when someone else has carved you up without a care! There's a whole world of difference there, Tony! What it's for, what it means—" he stops. Squints. "Is that why?" He asks softly. "Is that why you think I'm not real?"

Tony doesn't even know anymore. The tide has receded, the red laser light burns his eyes. "At SHIELD medical," he tells Steve, "with Loki, and Phil, and the other you. You said you'd never hurt me again; that's what you always say. When I'm in that segment of the world cycle, when the wheel starts turning again, that's always one of the first cracks to show." He inhales sharply and hisses as Steve dabs at his lips with the towel. "It's how I know you're not really you."

Steve is welling up again. He really can't hide anything behind that face. Did they give him shit for this in the army? Captain America, bravest man alive, stronger than a tank, cries at absolutely everything. "This isn't fair," he sobs, "you shouldn't have to go through this, these waking nightmares." The towel is soaked through. He wrings it out and rinses it in the sink with shaking hands. Pink water swirls down the plughole. "He's still torturing you, isn't he?" Steve asks. "Breaking you, even here. It wasn't just chunks of flesh you left behind in that cell."

A shuddering nod is the best Tony can do.

"I wish I could fix it," Steve murmurs.

The room's awash in red light now. It thunders straight from the valves of his heart, wails between the walls like a siren. All light is red light in Tony's expanding universe; all light is red light as he rockets alone through the vacuum like a laser-guided missile. "Then fix it," he says, gripped by a sudden, scorching fervor, "fuck me. Hurt me. Make me scream. I'll never spill my blood for anyone but you again."

Steve crumples. The toilet, which Tony notes has not transmuted into a wormhole or a Hammer drone, is there to catch him. And it stays in one piece. This red light seems to imbue everything with some strange ontology, some knife-edged jewel clarity, a stability that Tony remembers from back when he lived in only one world.

"Oh, Tony," Steve chokes out, "Tony, god. I want to. I've had to fight to _not_ to do anything like that since I took you out of the chains. I see the marks he left on you and I want to scrub them out. It's a cruel story he's written on your skin, under your bandages. I don't want to read it any more. I want to tear it down and write a new one."

This is it. Tony drops to his knees and rests his hands in Steve's. He's home, he's really home, and Steve is shaking like a leaf and it's Niagara Falls all down his face, and now Tony wants to cry too—no, scratch that, he's already started. He sniffs and dribbles a little through the gap in his lip as he smiles through his tears. "So what the fuck are you waiting for?"

Steve wipes his eyes and looks at Tony with alarm. " _Now_? But your skin has to grow back," he protests, "it'll get infected—"

"So pump up the antibiotics."

"But your cannula—"

"We'll work around it," Tony gasps, pressing breathless, stinging kisses to Steve's clavicle.

"Your ribs are fractured," Steve says, growing steadily short of breath himself, "you can't even walk without help, can't we wait a week?"

"No."

"If it's what you want. If it's really what you want."

"You know it is."

Steve leans in and licks the blood and spit from Tony's chin. "I could damage you permanently," he pants.

"I don't care. You've missed the boat by a mile there, anyway." Tony's injured lip is giving him a funny lisp. It probably needs stitches. Add it to the queue.

"Not funny, Tony," Steve replies. He still hasn't said _no_.

"Do it," Tony challenges.

"It's the most irresponsible thing I could do right now," Steve worries, "it's dangerous."

"But you're going to do it anyway."

"I know," admits Steve, "but I don't know why."

Tony answers, "because you're real. And because I trust you to."

And with that they're tumbling back into the sitting room, a tangle of limbs and trailing gauze and a teetering IV stand. Steve works their clothes off, throws a leg over Tony, tears off the dressings, and wrestles him down onto the sheet that's draped over the couch.

"I'm the only one who's allowed to hurt you," he whispers fiercely, "these scars are _my_ scars now."

He lays his hands on Tony's back and the skin separates easily, the layers shearing clean away. His wounds are all open. And it hurts, oh Christ, it hurts. This is them together taking an angle grinder to the cane, the whip, the crowbar, the electrical storm, to every aberration branded on his body in that suffocating white-walled pocket of hell. This is the truth carved into Tony's skin with steel and fire, letter by agonizing letter. This how he knows it's real.

Somehow they tangle themselves up in the sheet and roll to the floor, Tony moaning and groping, Steve sinking in with teeth and cock. Flesh divided, flesh renewed. His body sings. His body, his real body, at last, at last. He is one. Everything is one, frames of reference slamming together, time and space flaring supernova bright in the taut nexus of his nervous system. Fearing the waves no longer, Tony peels away and lets himself float, lost in ecstatic sensation.

They lie there in a heap, panting softly, sticky and wet. The evening sun slants in through the window. The chandelier scatters uncountable shards of light across their skins.

After a time, Steve looks around the room and cringes. "This was never a sterile environment, but it's really, really not sterile now."

Predictably, they've pulled out Tony's IV, and Steve has to cannulate him again.

It's absurd, his fastidious scrubbing and sanitizing, after what they've just done to each other. The sheet looks like someone was murdered on it. Drops of saline dry on the floor. The paper towels and alcohol wipes come away red-tinged and shameless.

"You'll have to make a new map of me," Tony mumbles, as the tip of the needle dips into his arm.

"Sit still," Steve orders, but Tony can't. His muscles are thrumming with energy. He's a neutron star; they'll feel his gamma ray bursts in the next galaxy.

Steve tapes the cannula in place and hugs Tony tight. "Please stop saying you'll die," he whispers.

"But it's true," Tony says, and Steve, with his superhuman senses, pretends not to hear. Tony surveys the carnage around them. Everything is stained in red. Oxidation disguises the taint in his blood, hemoglobin turning traitor as it leaves the cage of his body. Under the skin his veins still pulse palladium-black and blue, and there's metal around the taste of Steve in his mouth. "Take me to the lab," he says, tapping his arc reactor, "I have to fix this."

Steve's given up on arguing. He helps him up. Tony's knees wobble and he hears a thud, and the next thing he knows his face is on the floor. Maybe he _does_ need to rest. Just a little.

 _I'll fix it tomorrow_ , he thinks, as Steve rolls him over and gently scoops him up. There's always tomorrow. He has nothing but tomorrows now. They stretch into the distance like a sea of white sand.


	18. Persistence of Memory

Tony doesn’t remember it happening, but both of his ankles are apparently broken. Pepper fetched a motorized wheelchair after she caught him trying to crawl to the workshop. He's rolling out of the elevator when Bruce materializes in the middle of the corridor, followed seconds later by Betty and Thor. Tony almost jumps out of his blue spiderwebbed skin.

"Jesus!" He shouts, "warn a guy before you do that! 'Air traffic control, this is Bruce coming in for a landing'?...No?"

"Sorry," says Bruce, "it's a tricky business, sending information down the Bifrost. Complex multicellular organisms, sure, but electromagnetic signals always decohere for some reason." He scratches his head.

Thor takes a step forward. "Tony, my friend," he says solemnly, "it is good to see you again."

Tony blinks. "Seriously? That's it? No 'Tony, what the hell happened to you', no 'Tony, you look like shit'?"

"What, the clean-shaven look?" Bruce replies. "I mean, it's new, but I don't hate it."

Tony's beard is gone. It grew like a forest of kudzu in the weeks he spent with Ross; it grew scraggly and matted with spit and blood. The sight, the smell, and the feel generated echoes of the torture chamber every time he became aware of it. On his first day back, he asked Pepper to get rid of the whole thing. She's the only person besides Steve he trusts with a razor at his throat. Bruce has never seen him without his goatee, but that's not what Tony's talking about.

"You're not going to ask about the wheelchair or the IV?" He spreads his collar to bare his blackened, bulging veins. "Or this?"

"You are infirm, but you look well," Thor tells him.

"Better than I expected," Betty adds, which is both confusing and maddening. Doesn't anyone see—?

"Tony!" Yells Steve, charging around the corner at top speed, "are you okay? JARVIS said there was some kind of energy discharge here—" he skids to a halt and exhales. "Bruce. Thor, Betty. You're back."

"We're back," Bruce confirms, and sighs. "Tony, I don't need to ask. I know what happened to you. We saw everything."

"Indeed," rumbles Thor, "it was truly a terrible ordeal. Your cries rent my heart like the claws of Nidhogg itself." He looks like he wants to sweep Tony into one of his giant non-consensual bear hugs, but with the wheelchair in the way he can't figure out how.

"You knew." Tony hates how small his voice sounds. "How?"

"Heimdall," Betty says.

Those syllables mean nothing to him. "What?"

"Heimdall," Thor repeats, "the all-seeing guard of the rainbow bridge whose vision spans galaxies. He saw what happened here after we departed and alerted us to your capture."

"He has this artifact, this magic mirror, that shows other people what he sees," Bruce says. "We watched Ross hauling you away and torturing you. Fuck." He massages his forehead with the knuckles of one hand. "I wanted to jump straight back into the portal, get the other guy to chase down the APC. Tear it apart, carry you home. But there was no more portal by then."

"We knew exactly where he took you," says Betty, "and we tried to hard to send a message to your team. We tried everything. But the messages always turned to mush, and the energy of the bridge was depleted. We couldn't cross back to Earth. All we could do was watch." She hangs her head. "I never imagined he would sink to such horrific depths. God, and I used to call that man my _father_." She bites her lip. Her hands are trembling fists. "I'm so ashamed. I'm so, so sorry."

So they've seen everything. The Tony Stark Torture Channel, 24/7, live in HD. Tony swallows down the seasick feeling brewing at the back of his throat. "But the speed of light," he protests, which makes perfect sense and no sense at all, "it should have taken millions of years."

"It should have," Bruce agrees. "That's why it's called magic."

Tony imagines them all gathered around Heimdall's mirror. It's round, he decides, and framed in gold. They watch him in the bunker as he writhes and thrashes and screams, broken, abject, degraded. They watch his head flop over, eyes rolling back. They watch him trying to sell Steve out to Sterns to save his own ass. Are they angry? He hopes they're angry.

Another thought occurs to Tony. "Loki," he says, "was Loki there?"

Bruce's jaw tightens. It's Thor who answers. "My brother remains imprisoned, unrepentant, far from the halls of Valhalla. Fret not, my friend, for we three alone were privy to Heimdall's visions."

"But Loki, does he have that kind of power too? Can he see things?" Tony asks. Before Thor can reply, he starts questioning Bruce instead. "You said electromagnetic signals can't propagate down the bridge. What about other effects? Psionic effects? Action at a distance?"

"What are you talking about?" Bruce asks, baffled.

"Never mind," says Tony. He wishes it _was_ Loki, that his cycle of illusions and torments had come from some malevolent alien place, somewhere outside his own head. Divine intervention by a trickster god would be easier to accept, because while Tony gets by fine without his heart, he can't afford to lose his mind.

He doesn't realize how badly he's shaking until the wheelchair beeps a warning at him. He lifts his hand up in front of his face and tries to hold it steady. He can't. The afterimages of his blue, trembling fingers paint erratic arcs in the air; the palladium is destroying his nerves.

"I'm going to my workshop," Tony announces, "I have to do a thing." He looks at Bruce. "I could use an assistant," he says, and wheels away.

Bruce catches up and holds the workshop door open for him. "Tony," he says, "do you think you should talk to someone about what happened? I mean, not me, I'm not that kind of doctor, but do you think maybe you should...? I bet Clint could pull some strings and arrange something with SHIELD medical."

"Don't," Tony cuts him off, "please don't talk about SHIELD medical."

Steve has followed them down the hallway, leaving Betty and Thor alone at the foot of the elevator. If he has any opinions about this, he's keeping them to himself. Tony glances up and finds his face unreadable. It's unsettling. It must be the angle; everyone looks so much taller from down here in the chair.

Bruce changes tack. "How about Pepper? She could shop around, call in a professional."

"I don't need help," Tony snaps, "I can fix this myself." He brakes at a workbench and assembles some tools. "Look, can we just cut the crap and talk about the big blue elephant in the room now?"

"I don't know what you mean," Bruce says slowly.

"Look at me," Tony insists, "I look like an extra from fucking _Avatar_ with fucking space leprosy." He holds up his hand. "I can't stop shaking. Nerve damage is the terminal stage of heavy metal toxicity."

Steve and Bruce look at each other, lips and eyebrows contorting.

"You look fine to me," says Bruce.

Tony slams his fist on the table. "Fine? You saw what Ross did to me, and you think I'm _fine_?"

"No," answers Bruce, lenses flashing under the lights as he tilts his head, "that's not what I meant, Tony, no one expects you to be fine after that, but I mean. Physically. On the outside. It looks like you're healing well, and I don't see any signs of heavy metal poisoning. And you don't look blue at all—you're a normal human color."

"Sir, if I may," JARVIS interjects.

Tony doesn't look up. "What is it?"

JARVIS sounds almost apologetic. "On a visual basis, I too see nothing resembling your previous condition."

"No one asked you, eavesdropper," Tony grumbles. "Run a scan for radioisotopic signatures, then. Calibrate the sensors for palladium, niobium, everything." He rifles through a drawer for his backup chest reactor and sets it down on the table.

"As you wish, sir," JARVIS replies, and goes quiet.

Steve's hand is on his shoulder. "I've been trying to tell you, Tony," he says, "there's no palladium. You aren't dying."

"Then why am I shaking like this?" Tony lashes out, brandishing a quivering screwdriver at him. "Why do I feel the marrow seeping out of my bones?" He drops the screwdriver and buries his face in his hands. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?" He mumbles, "both of you, you think I'm nuts."

"Hey, calm down," says Bruce, tone hushed and placating. Condescending. "We'll do a full blood panel, okay? If you say you're sick, I'm not going to argue with you. We can rule out palladium, but there are lots of other things we can test for."

He doesn't get it. Why is no one _getting_ it? "Oh, fuck this," Tony says, "I'll just have to show you."

Switching arc reactors is easy. There's a capacitor array in the housing that holds a charge and keeps his heartbeat steady long enough for Tony to slot in a replacement. The process is muscle memory now; he can do it in his sleep. Thumbs in the catches on the casing, press and twist just so, three fingers on the release mechanism, pop the cable out and connect the new reactor.

And breathe, and breathe, and try not to remember.

The white walls and the cascade of panic, the thin air and the invading hands, the severed wire dangling uselessly like the tail of a disintegrating comet. The wire, that's the point of failure—detach both ends, like Ross did, and it's curtains. A glaring design fault.

The portions of Tony's brain that escaped the surge of memory begin whirring furiously in the background. Nanomaterials, biometric locks, a capacitive mesh lining behind the inner walls. Infrared transceivers, tiny propulsion units, hell, a panic button. A failsafe, a self-destruct mechanism. Electrify the housing and fry whoever touches him. In case of flatline, disintegrate the building and everyone in it.

No. He's doing it again, that thing he does, adding patches onto patches that are already dozens of layers deep. It's how he wrote the armor's firmware, too, and look at where _that_ got him. Things would have gone so differently if his subdermal transponder had linked up that day. He can't keep inventing this way, he realizes. The whole thing needs tearing down and rebuilding. He has to fix this—not just this, but _this_ , the whole deadly-shrapnel-and-an-electromagnet-embedded-in-his-chest situation. _The seat of your power is your weakest point_. Ross is a certifiable psycho, but even psychos get things right sometimes.

The backup reactor clicks into place. At this stage, its ion filter won't make a dent in his palladium levels, but it's going to generate a lot of discharge. He'll have to remember to drain it; backwash is the last thing he needs. The reactor he just removed hums quietly on the table, its metal shell still body-warm. Tony picks the screwdriver up again. It's time to dig out the poison seed. _Get it out, get it out, get it out_.

He opens the fuel compartment, and what the fuck. That's not palladium. Where are the pits and the scorch marks, the smoke? The little filament doesn't answer him, just shines deep silver and dumb. Tony pings it with his finger, and the vibrations die off in an instant.

Bruce and Steve stare at him from across the workbench.

"This is impossible," Tony murmurs.

"I've been trying to tell you," Steve says again.

"No," says Tony, "no, he took my vibranium away, he made me sick. Come on, Bruce, you must have seen it, you must have seen it in Heimdall's mirror."

Bruce shakes his head, eyes downcast, not meeting Tony's gaze.

"I _saw_ it," Tony insists.

Steve bends down and takes his jittering hands. "You also saw Nat wearing an apron and baking cookies," he says gently.

Tony stares into the fading glow of the reactor, at the shadows it throws on the vibranium triangle. "I'm not crazy," he whispers.

"You've been through a lot," says Bruce, "are you sure you don't want to—"

"I'm _not crazy_ ," Tony growls. "If the poison isn't in the fuel, then it has to be in the coolant channels or the particle accelerator modules. I'll find it when I take the reactor apart." He clears a swath of table and glances up at Bruce. "Are you going to help me, or are you just going to sit there and judge me?"

It takes them two hours to dismantle the chest reactor and inspect every single part, and in the end there's nothing, fucking _nothing_. Nothing but the phantom feeling of fingers jammed inside him, nothing but the army of spiders crawling under his skin. JARVIS's isotopic scans all come back negative, and Steve and Bruce go blue in the face trying to tell Tony he's fine.

 _Blue in the face. Funny. Good one, me_. Tony catches his reflection in a shard of polished metal, and the lesions look almost alive, pulsating and creeping. Why does everyone keep saying he's fine when it's so hard to breathe? His body is a bag of necrotic tissue and hollow bone. He can feel the tattered remains of his organs sloshing around when he moves.

"Listen, Tony," says Bruce, "the brain responds to trauma in some pretty warped ways. You feel like you've been invaded, like the integrity of your body has broken down, and your mind does everything it can to compensate for that feeling. To provide some kind of explanation. It happened to me, too, the first time I escaped and went on the run." He takes a slow breath. "Some nights I'd wake up and I'd see hundreds of scalpels sticking out of my skin. I'd reach out and touch them and the blades would slice into my fingers, that's how real they were." He shudders. "I thought I was going to bleed out and die, and then—I don't know why, but I tried to pull the scalpels out. I'd pull them out and throw them to the floor," he says, miming the action, "and they'd be nothing. Dust. Air. And my hands were clean and whole."

Tony doesn't know what to say to that, and Steve, being Steve, is looking at Bruce all wobbly-eyed like he's about to start crying again.

"You're not crazy," Bruce shrugs, "you're just—adapting." He's so fucking zen about this. He's altogether too okay with this.

"Sure as hell doesn't feel like an adaptation," Tony mumbles.

Bruce leans in. "I know what it's like to feel violated and helpless," he says, "to be _used_ like that. It's a thing Ross does, I think. He won't touch you himself, but for his underlings the prisoner's body is a free-for-all."

This is like the moment between being hit by a truck and realizing you've been hit by a truck. "Wait," says Tony, "back up, _what_?"

"Yeah," Bruce replies, eyes clouded, looking somewhere far away, "the surgeons and the lab techs took turns on me, just like your army prison guards did. I've never told anyone before today, I just, I tried to forget about it, you know? My head was clamped to the table, I had to look into their faces while they did it. Your guys had masks on. Did that make it easier to take?"

Steve's gone white as a sheet. "Tony, why didn't you tell me you were—"

"Because I didn't know," Tony interrupts, tapping his temple, "it must have happened when no one was home up here." He's burning up under his skin now. It feels like something repulsive coating his insides. _Get it out, get it out, get it out_.

Bruce takes off his glasses and smacks his forehead into his palms. "Oh, shit. Shit. Fuck. Tony, I'm sorry. I thought you were aware. In the mirror, you were moving and talking, I thought you were aware. Shit. I should've known. You checked out, of course you did, it's a defense mechanism. Of course. Why can't I keep my damn mouth shut?" His face scrunches up in anguish. "I'm not helping here, am I? I should, I should go."

"No." Tony's hand shoots out and grabs his sleeve. "Don't leave. Tell me what else you saw."

"Tony," Steve says warily, "don't do this to yourself."

"I need to know," argues Tony, "I need all the variables. I can't be in control if I don't know all the variables."

"Then don't be in control," says Steve, straightening up and crowding into his space like a pillar of light. "You don't have to be iron on the inside too."

 _But that's all I know how to be_ , Tony thinks. Without Iron Man, without the suit and the mess of scars on his chest, he's nothing—and he wants to fix it, he _has_ to fix it, but the idea of becoming human again terrifies him like nothing else.

"I hate seeing you like this, Tony," stammers Bruce, "this isn't you. He put you in a wheelchair, he destroyed your mind." The tips of his fingers are going green. "He has to pay. I'm going to make him pay."

"That's not such a good idea," Steve pipes up.

"Seriously, Steve? After everything he's done, you want to _forgive_ him?" Bruce demands, in a voice that's not entirely his.

"That's not what I'm saying at all," says Steve. "If I could take a hot poker to his eye sockets, I would. But the legal situation's complicated," he adds quickly, "SHIELD set some things in motion while you were gone."

"SHIELD doesn't care about us," Bruce says, and it almost sounds like he's talking to himself.

"I know," Steve replies, "but Clint and Natasha called in some favors." He tries to smile. "Bruce, this is big. The General's been ordered to keep his hands off you from now on. As long as we leave him alone, we're safe. If he tries to capture you again, it would be considered an act of sabotage, and SHIELD will come down on him like a ton of bricks."

This is pretty much the same explanation Steve's been repeating to Tony for days. He recognizes it from the bits and pieces that sifted in through his delirium. A stack of paper and a few dishonest promises, and that's what he's supposed to build his walls on. Tony notices Steve carefully eliding the part where Bruce is officially SHIELD property now, and he's not sure if he should feel proud of being the one who taught Captain America to lie.

Bruce sits for a second and takes it in. "I'm safe," he marvels, "all of us, we're safe." He cups a hand to the base of his skull and chuckles softly. "The other guy's having a dance party in here."

"It isn't justice," Steve admits, "but it's as close as we're going to get."

"But it's not enough," Bruce says abruptly, his face hardening, "not for either of us. Not for any of us. The other guy's baying for revenge; I can hear him. He wants to rip the fucker's head off and play kickball with it." He looks at Tony. "Ross almost killed you. We can't just let him get away with that."

With a sigh, Steve shakes his head. "I don't like it either, but if we take him to task over what he did to Tony, our own crimes will be dragged out into the light of day. We killed soldiers, Bruce. We obstructed justice. We're all caught in a delicate equilibrium now—either everyone gets away, or no one does."

"That," says Bruce, "is bullshit."

Steve's posture goes rigid. "We're all back safe now," he replies, "please don't throw away everything we've worked for."


	19. Foreign Bodies

Clint is telling Thor more or less the same thing when Tony wheels into the half-reconstructed dining room several hours later. Thor keeps complaining that Midgardian law is senseless, and seems to be taking his anger out on a bowl of soon-to-be-mashed potatoes.

"I have a machine for that," says Tony, as a lump of potato rockets through the air and splatters on his nose. Clint's been hit a few times as well; everyone else is keeping a safe distance. Steve and Natasha talk under their breath in the corner while Betty, still wearing her Asgardian dress and cloak, racks up an impressive pile of empty lager bottles.

"No machines," Thor replies, "a warrior's feast of honor is prepared with one's own hands. And you, my friend, are the most honorable of warriors."

"I spent a month in a cell hallucinating and stewing in my own piss," says Tony flatly, "that's honorable in your culture?"

Thor looks up from his potatoes, right into Tony's face, unfathomable universes swirling behind his eyes. "Do not speak of yourself in such terms, friend. Such an ordeal would have broken a lesser man, but you never yielded. You were strong and you were loyal," he says, "and _that_ is honorable."

It's still highly disturbing that other people know everything that happened in there, probably better than Tony does.

"Steve tells me this will be your first proper meal since you were rescued from that man's evil clutches," Thor continues. "As your shield-brother, it is my duty to feed you well and to see you battle-ready once more." He pauses. "It is also my duty to ride into battle with you and slay the one who injured you so grievously, but Clint has told me I must not do that under any circumstances."

"I'm serious," says Clint, "it's tough, but we have to move on. This whole arrangement depends on everyone toeing the line. It'd be different if we had something to prosecute Ross over, but he made sure all the shit he put you through was above board." On seeing Tony's questioning look, Clint adds, "oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you, I stole his reports. Hope you don't mind."

Tony doesn't. He's past that point; he has bigger things to mind.

Pepper, Bruce, and the bots emerge from the kitchen balancing huge, steaming platters in their hands and graspers. Everyone descends on the food like a pack of starving wolves. Tony's almost forgotten what real food tastes like, and his first bite brings stinging metallic tears to his eyes. Pepper offers him a napkin and hugs him without asking. "It's good to have you back," she murmurs into his shoulder, and though Tony's been back for days, he understands what she means.

Thor starts telling everyone about his quest for the magic jewel that Odin used to jumpstart the Bifrost. Something to do with elves and a mystical forest and Bruce hulking out and curb-stomping a fearsome mandrake monster.

Natasha comes over to sit by Tony. "He's been telling this story all day," she says. "Have you tried these potatoes? They're really good." She ladles another scoop onto her plate and asks him evenly, "so, when are you going to show the world your face again? And have you thought of a cover story?"

"I want to tell them the truth," says Tony.

"But you can't," says Natasha.

He doesn't need her to remind him. He's seen the news. People are shitting their pants over his disappearance. They deserve to know; they can't know. "Most of the Internet thinks I've died of syphilis," Tony quips, "maybe I'll go with that."

Natasha frowns. "You want to disappear? To pretend you're dead and hide up here forever?"

"That's no fun," Betty chimes in.

"And it isn't you," Natasha says, "you live in the public eye."

Yeah, he does. Tony's never lived any other way. Without the rest of the world reflecting his own image back at him, reminding him who he is every minute of every day, he might just stop believing his own hype—and that way lies the devouring blackness of uncharted space.

"I'll think of something," he says.

"You'd better," she replies. "I would tread carefully if I were you."

"You never talked, did you, Tony?" Says Betty somberly. "All those awful things my—the General—did to you, and you never betrayed us."

"You should have," adds Bruce, who's been listening in, "you should've just given him the info and saved yourself. I mean, I was in another realm. What could he do?"

"He wouldn't have given up. You know that," says Tony, staring into the coagulating potato gravy on Natasha's plate. "If he had any idea you were in Asgard, the trail would've led him back to Jane Foster and everyone who researched the Bifrost. He would have tortured them too. I couldn't let that happen." And it jolts him a little, hearing those words spill from his mouth, because the Tony that Tony thinks he knows would've happily thrown _anyone_ under the bus to get out of that cell. But he didn't, did he? It's a superposition of truth states—his selves are disjoint, birefringent—what? Oh. His mouth is still moving. "It wouldn't have stopped there, Bruce. The man's insane enough to declare war on Asgard for harboring you. And I prefer my planet in one piece," Tony jokes weakly.

"Such a war would indeed be catastrophic for Midgard," notes Thor. "You speak of my Jane; why is she not here with us today? JARVIS has been rather reticent on the matter."

"Steve can explain," says Natasha.

"Um," responds Steve around a mouthful of beans. He swallows. "Jane doesn't live here anymore."

Thor springs up from his chair, arm outstretched and ready to summon his hammer. "Has she come to harm?"

"No!" Replies Steve hurriedly, "don't worry, Thor, she's fine. It's just. She feels like she can't stay here any longer, because." He lays his fork down and sighs. "Because she thinks it's her fault, what happened to Tony. The day after you three left for Asgard, after Tony was—was taken, Jane and JARVIS discovered it was the aether storm from the opening of the Bifrost that knocked Tony out and—" Steve's now fighting to get his sentences out—"and left him vulnerable to capture by the enemy."

Steve hasn't told Tony this yet. Then again, Tony never asked. He would've noticed Jane was gone sooner or later. Probably. Tony belays his surprise by offering an amendment. "The storm's only half the equation. There was some powerful electromagnetic interference with Ross's rotating pulse attacks. It was a one-in-a-million collision; I wouldn't have malfunctioned with just the storm." And humans don't _malfunction_ , but the word slips so smoothly, so easily from his lips.

"That's what JARVIS said," Steve replies, "he had these equations and holograms everywhere. It didn't make a difference. I tried to tell Jane the aether attack was the right move, it won the battle for us, but she wouldn't hear it." His voice lowers to a hush. "She cried for hours. Pepper and I couldn't do a thing. And then she packed up and left." Steve keeps his gaze down, twisting the tablecloth in his fingers. "Now and then she comes to the lab to check on the portal machine, but she said she can't bear to face any of us after what she's done."

"Nonsense!" Thor shouts, "what misplaced guilt! None could have foreseen the consequences of her actions! I must put an end to this madness. Can Jane be reached by the telephone or the electronic mail?"

"We've got to get in contact, let her know it's okay," Bruce agrees. He steals a quick glance at Tony's face as he adds, "it wasn't her fault."

Well. Technically it kind of is, but. Tony remembers Christmas and wonders if every dinner party at the Avengers Tower will inevitably devolve into painful conversations and awkward silences. This time most of them aren't even drunk yet.

Pepper's brought her chair over and squeezed in between Tony and Natasha, pushing his IV stand aside to make way. All eight of them have somehow ended up shoulder to shoulder at one end of the table, personal space be damned. "I couldn't find your phone after the battle, Thor, and Jane's not answering calls from me or Steve," Pepper says. "Here, this is the address she left." There's a pen and a slip of paper in her hands now, somehow, and Tony suspects she stores her office supplies where Natasha stores her knives. With a tight smile, Pepper hands over the address. "She'll be happy to see you. Tell her no one blames her for what happened, okay?"

"If anyone's to blame for it, it's me," mutters Bruce. "You guys were attacked because of me. The tower was destroyed because of me."

Tony sees Pepper shift into peacekeeping mode. "Bruce, no, don't say that. Neither you nor Jane has anything to apologize for. It was no one's fault."

"No," Clint says quietly, "it was. The tower was destroyed because the team was two short, because Tasha and I dropped out of the fight."

"I'm the one who should take the blame," Betty insists, "my father wouldn't have come to fight you while I was alive. Before I died, he was content to leave you be. I think losing me sent him round the bend." She pauses for a half-hiccup, half-sob. "He did love me in his own stupid, twisted way. It's my fault, I'm the one who started the chain reaction—my selfishness has led you all to this."

Tony sinks into his wheelchair and tunes out the sound of their arguing. He's tired of counterfactuals, tired of causality, tired of all the rabid fractal branching universes encoded in _could_ have, _would_ have, _should_ have. He has enough of those running through his own mind. Bruce was right: if Tony had squealed, he could've stopped the interrogation before the first strike of the cane. So why didn't he? Because Bruce is his friend, Tony realizes slowly, and he'd do anything for him. Because Tony didn't sell him down the river when Ross came knocking. Because Tony stupidly refused to break no matter how badly he was beaten.

His own kindness, his own selflessness, his _integrity_ has done this to him, a foreign body nestled in his meat, growing roots. Forced symbiosis. His chest reactor's the same; excise the thing, wrench it out, and he'll be on the floor gasping for air. He has to get it out, get it out. But how? His heart's atrophied and shriveled, his lungs have rearranged themselves around the wound. His sternum isn't going to just grow back. One day, Tony thinks, he'll go through himself part by part, cutting out the alien pieces and sanding away the cavities and voids they leave behind. How much of Tony Stark will he have left in the end, he wonders. Enough to hold together, enough to blow away like dust?

Around the table, everyone's still playing the blame game, passing it back and forth like a lead weight, a prize no one wants to win. Tony can taste the poison on his tongue, sees patches of blue at the corners of his vision. He knows who's really at fault here. He knows what he has to do.


	20. Patterns of Force

Tony is in flight.

It's a clear night, bright stars tilting overhead and city lights swarming below. He's streaming news radio in place of his regular soundtrack because it's comforting to hear strangers repeating his name.

_...Stark flies again..._

_...where has Tony Stark been all this time?..._

_...the return of Tony Stark? We have a lot more questions than answers at this point. Stark Industries could not be reached for comment, and the Avengers have stayed..._

_...Tony Stark's keeping a lot of people up tonight, but not in the way you'd think..._

JARVIS is listening to all the streams at once. He switches stations for Tony each time he picks up on something new.

_...a bird, it's a plane, it's the second coming of Iron Man..._

_...authorities have yet to identify the low-flying object in the skies over the northeastern states, but dozens of eyewitnesses have called in to tell us..._

_...but the question is, is that Tony Stark in the suit? We'll keep you updated, so stay tuned to..._

_...and Twitter is absolutely on fire tonight, with the hashtags #StarksNotDead and #TonyLives trending over..._

He'd be invisible at cruising altitude, but tonight, Tony wants to be seen. Witnessed. Remembered. Cool, thin air cycles in through the helmet's respirators. He takes a deep gulp and exhales, feels the vibrations from the suit and the reactor humming through his skin and his battered veins.

It's been three weeks. He's back on his feet and his wounds have healed over, his beard grown back in. Steve and Bruce have found some drug that lets him sleep without dreaming. Tony's more rested than he's been in years, but he still can't shake off the blue, the spider legs, the chitinous lesions that shimmer in the mirror and vanish when he turns his head.

He throws up all the time, in the toilet, in a bucket, over the ledge of the penthouse suite, in secret. Black ink. He can't tell if those chunks are food or decayed internal organs. He spends hours each day disassembling, examining, and reassembling his chest reactors, looking for the palladium he knows isn't there. He strains against invisible shackles, heavy metals, the feeling of crawling. That's what he does when he's on the ground, he crawls.

But the ground is far away now; tonight, he's pure momentum. He skims the treetops and glides past the darkened skyscrapers, diving and rolling like the wind across the open plains. He feels like he could dissolve up here. Going, going, gone.

_...last few hours, reports have been flooding in from Newark, Pittsburgh, Columbus, and almost every city in between. A number of witnesses have caught the object on video—in fact, some hikers on the Appalachian Trail have captured it up close and uploaded the footage online..._

The city's dropping away behind him. Fifty miles to go. "JARVIS, activate stealth mode," Tony mutters. The air show's over; it's time to disappear.

_...zero public statements from Captain America, who is widely considered the spokesperson for the Avengers. US Air Force Colonel James Rhodes, a personal friend of Tony Stark's, has gone on record as saying he has no knowledge of Stark's status or his whereabouts. The Department of Defense continues to turn down requests to comment on the confrontation between the Avengers and the military that took place at Stark Tower in February..._

He's here.

It's been criminally easy to track Ross's movements across the country. He's flown back and forth a few times between DC and New York City, with two detours to Omaha and one to New Orleans. Tony's uncovered no patterns, no mission records, only names: Parker, Summers, LeBeau, d'Ancanto. When he digs deeper, he runs into classified walls not even JARVIS can breach.

Ross must have heard about Tony's flight by now. He knows Iron Man's here, but he's just far enough on the right side of arrogant to think Iron Man isn't here for _him_. To think his position and a piece of paper will keep him safe.

Tony lands and waits. The road is deserted and dark, the headlamps of the approaching car a pinpoint in the distance. At 0200 hours, the General will board a military jet to Pearl River, Mississippi; at 0116 hours, Tony will ensure he never makes it to the Air Force base. He crouches low and slings a metal disc onto the road. It expands and splits up, the pieces flattening themselves into the asphalt, undetectable. A Ten Rings tactic, distilled and evolved.

The grind of the engine is audible now. Speed and ETA readouts pop up on Tony's HUD, decimal points flickering as JARVIS adjusts his calculations. One minute to ambush. Thirty seconds. Ten, nine, eight...

The explosion lights up the trees. Shrapnel streaks across the road, smoke curls into the sky. The suit hums softly as Tony strides into the wreckage.

Ross had a driver. The man lies sprawled across his overturned seat, twitching and bleeding from the neck. He won't survive. Tony shoots him first, puts him out of his misery. Collateral damage.

"You," sputters Ross. His voice is venom, filled with defiance. There isn't a trace of fear in those eyes.

Tony flips his visor up and hisses, "did you miss me?"

"You'll face the firing squad for this."

Tony taps his armored chest. "Well, they can try."

He grabs Ross roughly by the torso and hauls him out of the car, depositing him at the side of the road. Ross doesn't make a sound, but when Tony drops him his legs fold up in the wrong direction. Broken. Good.

"Scan complete. He is unarmed, sir," JARVIS whispers in Tony's ear.

Ross glares up at him. "I always knew you'd go bad someday," he wheezes, "always knew you were a supervillain waiting to happen."

"You and half the world's population," Tony sneers. "Corporate law revolves around me and my company now, did you know that? People are thinking ten steps ahead to block my inevitable monopoly over the energy industry. More profit, more money, that's exactly what I need," he scoffs. "Truth is, I can't give the stuff away fast enough. I'm a philanthropist, General. Do you know what that word means?"

No answer, just two eyes full of seething hatred and two legs that aren't going anywhere anytime soon.

"It's Greek," says Tony, " _philos_ , love; _anthropos_ , humanity. My money helps the poor, the hungry, the oppressed. And let's not forget I privatized world peace before the aliens came along." The suit hinges open at the front and Tony steps out. The unfiltered night smells of fire. "I'm a good guy, General, not some kind of evil cartoon overlord. I'm not inventing mind control devices or laser death rays in my lab. I don't want to take over the world. To be honest, it sounds like a lot of work for very little payoff, and that's dumb. What's the point of me terrorizing random strangers? They don't have anything I want."

"Power," Ross responds simply, struggling for breath through his mask of blood, "power...draws...everyone."

"I'm sorry, are we still talking about me or are we talking about you now?"

"Mine is a means...to an end...I protect my country. I always have. I protect my country...from monsters...like Banner, like you."

"You don't get it," Tony says, "gamma rays turned Bruce Banner into the Hulk, but _you_ turned him into a monster. You hunted a _hero_. You tortured another. I'm here to bring you to justice."

"You're here for revenge."

"Tomayto, tomahto."

Ross sits tall and still in the cool night, still in the face of death. This must be the steel that earned him his rank. Tony sees where Betty gets it from. "The world's waking up...to the threat of you...you superhumans." His voice is growing faint. "You kill me, you'll start a war."

"I'm counting on it," Tony replies. No more cover-ups or secret interrogations; they'll fight this out in the open.

"You say...you love humanity. Doesn't humanity have the right to protect itself from you?"

"I protect it from itself," Tony growls.

"You don't deserve that kind of power," Ross gasps out, "power...corrupts. Power belongs...to the powerful..."

"I couldn't agree more," says Tony, shutting his eyes and sending a neuroelectric spark down his left arm. His fresh transponder implant throbs in response. One repulsor glove detaches from the suit and glides towards him, locking around his open hand.

People say Tony's impulsive, but that's not always true. He does think of the consequences. Sometimes he even weighs them up and reconsiders. But there's no backing down tonight. 'Bad decision' is a subjective term.

Tony takes a step forward and maybe sees, maybe imagines Ross shudder for a moment.

He lifts his hand.

Without the rest of the armor to stabilize him, the recoil from the repulsor blast sends him staggering back into the trees.

In silhouette, against the orange flames of the burning car, Ross's body slumps to the ground. Ashes rain down on the road like snow.

Tony dismisses the glove with a flick of his wrist. He touches his face and his chest, rolls up his sleeves, holds his arms out under the moonlight. Makes an elated, disbelieving noise: the corrupted mosaic of veins is gone. His skin is his again. He glances down, half-expecting to find a mass of blue scabs and dead tissue littering the ground, but there's nothing.

What happens now? What happens next? Tony doesn't know. He inhales, and in his mind he can see the vibrant red expanse of his lungs, rich with oxygen. It's been a long time since he's felt this good.

The suit starts ringing. Tony detaches the helmet and pops it onto his head.

"Captain Rogers calling from the tower, sir," JARVIS says. "He's seen the news and wants to know why you're flying to Ohio in the middle of the night."

Tony steps into the suit and feels it lock into place around him, a familiar, comforting weight. He smiles. "Tell him I'll be home by morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was the character death the tags warned you about. I suspect I've rather misinterpreted the purpose of that tag. Should I remove it?
> 
> Also, this is the end of the first part of the story. There'll be a hiatus of at least two months while I sort out the plot for the second part. Thanks for reading!


	21. Ozymandias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to part two! Be warned, a lot of **minor character death** is coming up (but no Avenger death). Thanks for your patience with the hiatus, and enjoy the new chapters.

There's enough power left in the suit for hours of flight. Tony takes the long way back to Manhattan, repulsors drawing slow curlicues through the black of the upper troposphere. The clouds below are murky with moonlight. No one sees him here but the birds.

Steve's waiting on the rooftop when he touches down. "Where'd you go?"

Tony takes his helmet off and shakes his hair out. "Ohio."

"I know that," says Steve.

"You saw the news," Tony agrees.

"But why? What were you doing out there?"

"Can we do this later, Captain Spanish Inquisition? I've been up all night and I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

Steve hesitates and for a microsecond Tony thinks he might actually give in and let him go, but it passes. "I want you to go to bed too, but not before you give me a straight answer."

"I just wanted to fly," says Tony, and it's not entirely a lie. "It's been too long since I've worn the suit. I wanted to put on a show for my adoring public. I have to let them know I'm not dead."

Steve looks skeptical. "At one in the morning?"

"Spur-of-the-moment decision," Tony shrugs.

"You couldn't have held a press conference or something?"

"You know me better than that. Go big or go home."

Steve peers into Tony's face with bright, searching eyes. Something's still bothering him. "You flew dead straight the whole way," he says, "and you went dark after passing Columbus. Why?"

"Low power," Tony replies, "that's why it took so long to get back." He sees Steve's eyes flick down to his arc reactor like he expects to find some kind of proof there. "I just wanted to fly," Tony repeats, and he can tell Steve's not buying a word of it it despite trying very hard to convince himself to.

"All right," Steve says finally, reluctantly. He comes and wraps his arms around the armor. Tony doesn't feel a thing. "Just promise me you didn't do anything you shouldn't have."

 _Not on my terms, I didn't._ "Promise," says Tony, returning the embrace. The texture of Steve's jacket filters in through the suit's tactile feedback relays; leather, smooth and cold. There are no temperature sensors to tell him about the warm body underneath.

"I was worried you'd run out of power," Steve mutters into his ear, "or you got hit with another EMP or something, or crashed into a mountainside." He leaves out the words _on purpose_. "You're going to make me old before my time."

"Good thing you have seventy years left in the bank," Tony says.

Steve brushes a kiss against his lips. "I love you," he says, but he sounds so scared.

"Love you too." It's the truth.

"Now that Iron Man's made his big comeback, will Tony Stark talk to the press?" Steve asks.

"He will," Tony answers, "eventually. For now, I have work to do."

A man is dead. It changes nothing. Today's work is the same as yesterday's; for weeks now, Tony has been working at tearing down everything he's ever built.

Forty-two suits have been culled down to four. Three, after he sheds the one he's wearing and breaks it down into scrap. Dum-E helps him cart the pieces over to the junk pile, where they join a legion of dismembered iron corpses tossed in with parts that used to make up gyroscopic nuclear couples, experimental force field generators, antimatter flechettes, an attempt at a hovercar, the Sister Ray, and hundreds of Tony's other inventions. The junk pile towers over the workshop and spills out the doors. It breaks his heart. A faceplate scowls from the summit like the visage of some crumbling desert monument. More than once now, Tony has knelt at the foothills with a bottle in his hand and wept.

This is his life rendered in copper and chrome. They could turn it into a museum piece. He's made sure that's the most use anyone will ever get out of it. Tony's not fooling himself; every action has a reaction. A storm is coming, and eager hands are waving on the wind. He can't let anyone else get hold of this technology.

The three remaining suits are optimized with interchangeable parts cast from an amorphous alloy, the same stuff that formed the sphere-gauntlets he deployed when the tower was under attack. The interface is still a little clumsy, but soon he'll be able to reshape his suits at will, in real time, and they'll pack flatter than Ikea furniture when idle. Three's a good number, Tony thinks. Three is enough. Three suits left, and three chest reactors, heart-sized jewels, the keys to everything. These are the important things, the things he'll take with him when the time comes.

His work is nearly done, his affairs converging towards order. What inventions he can't destroy or compact, he'll lock away in a secret basement vault designed to weather two nuclear apocalypses unscathed. Tony sits down and surveys the scene as Dum-E regards him with a quizzical cock of its grasper.

Dum-E.

He doesn't have a sequential memory. His brain is volatile RAM. He'd be less than useless to anyone who tried to put him to work or extract information from him. But his voice recognition circuits and natural language processors, primitive and flawed though they may be, are important precursors to far greater things. Sure, it would take a genius to recognize the patterns and extrapolate from there, not to mention to reverse engineer him in the first place, but Tony decides he can't leave anything to chance. He fits a flathead tip on his screwdriver and clenches his fists to steel himself. "Dum-E, come over here for a second."

When the sun rises, Tony goes to look for Jane in the high-energy physics lab. Thor convinced her to come back to the tower a few days after his return from Asgard, and she hasn't stopped apologizing since. When Tony told her about his new project she dove in headfirst, hoping the work would drown her guilt over getting him captured. Three weeks later, she still hasn't come up for air.

"Tony," Jane says, smiling through dark-ringed eyes, "it's working. It's working."

He stops in his tracks. "Really? So your theory—?"

"Yeah," she nods, "yeah, it's true. Modulating a cell signal through the low-level interference matrix of a proto-wormhole makes it completely untraceable." Jane's the only one who doesn't think twice about saying _wormhole_ in front of Tony. He thinks she couldn't stop even if she wanted to. It's a word she's been saying all her life, ever since she learned to talk and to gaze up at the stars. Wormhole wormhole wormhole. Death. Confounding emptiness.

"It was one of your new signal repeaters that did the trick," she continues. "Series B didn't work out—the symmetric collapse problem again—but there was one from series C." She checks her notes. "Series C, variant five produces an isotropic distribution of wave packets, which makes it impossible to reconstruct the original signal." There are stars in her eyes—or is that the dust of exhaustion? "I didn't believe it at first, but I've checked and double-checked. It really works."

She shows him the oscilloscope, the charts, the simulations. Bulletproof encryption. "This is amazing," Tony mutters.

"It makes RSA look like ROT13," Jane grins.

"Series C, variant five," Tony muses, "that's 37.7% orichalcum, isn't it? And the ingot Thor brought back from Asgard was originally—" he examines the whiteboard on the wall—"five hundred grams."

"We can make ten or eleven units with what's left," says Jane.

"That's more than enough," says Tony.

"Bruce has been working on a schematic for a closed network," Jane tells him, "so we'll all be connected on one encrypted line. I still don't get why we need this, though. It's a fascinating project, but we all live together, don't we? We can have private conversations in person or through JARVIS."

Tony sets down the spare signal repeater he's been fiddling with. Series B, variant nine, one of the failures. "Things could change," he says slowly. "You watched the news lately?"

"No, why? Did something happen?"

"Nothing important."

"Sure. Okay." Jane yawns, pouring cold coffee down her throat and throwing the paper cup in the general direction of the garbage can. The entire lab is littered with empty cups, crumpled snack bags, and scrawls of brilliant nonsense, the detritus of marathon all-nighters. She's running herself into the ground for him, running like Zeno's Achilles after an absolution she'll never taste in all of time's infinity, and Tony hasn't said or done a thing to try and stop it. It can't be helped, he reasons. He's on an invisible deadline and she's giving him results. That's what's important; everything else is collateral damage. She's young. She'll be fine. Bodies her age are practically built for self-destruction.

This discovery's a major breakthrough. The pieces of the puzzle are starting to fall into place.

Tony retreats to his main office on the twentieth floor. He unlocks a drawer in his desk, stopping briefly to run his hand over the smooth joins of mahogany, the impeccable seams between the wood, the leather top, and the antique gold inlays. This was his father's desk. It's probably worth thousands. His inventions are one thing, but what's he going to do with all his _stuff_? The paintings, the cars, the 1925 Steinway Grand...he'll ask Pepper to check with legal. They're paid to plan for contingencies like these. It won't do to have looters and opportunists getting rich off what he leaves behind.

Ross's torture report lies in a brown envelope at the bottom of the drawer. Tony hasn't read it. He doesn't need to go back there. Clint handed it over to him after Thor's feast of honor. "The words belong to you," he said, "and one day the pain will too. When you own it, it loses its hold over you." His eyes were furious, brown as earth, and Tony didn't ask him how he knew. It's been almost a year since Loki; does Clint, too, own the point of that scepter, the alien magic that buried itself in his brain? A thousand years ago, they would’ve drilled a hole through his skull to let the demons out.

"JARVIS," says Tony, opening the envelope and spreading the loose sheets out on the desk, "I want these pages digitized. Plain text, formatted text, and images. Save a copy to my private server, my portable drive, and my sector on the networked cluster. Biometric encryption. Lock out everyone but me."

"Very good, sir." A laser appears and begins to sweep the report. "I apologize if this is taking longer than usual. I am still in the process of backing myself up. Most of my available resources are engaged."

Tony replies, "you know how to optimize your allocations," by which he means _I understand_. "You're not like the bots. There's a lot of you to back up."

"Alas, poor Dum-E," says JARVIS flatly.

Once he's done, the report goes back in the envelope. One more item checked off the list. Tony doesn't know how much time he has left. He finds out two days later when the FBI turns up at his front door.


	22. Confrontation

For a second they seem surprised to find him here, in his home, alive and well. There are two of them: a big guy, older, stone-faced, and a little guy who reminds Tony of every limp noodle of a middle manager he's ever met. _No prizes for guessing who's who in Good Cop, Bad Cop_ , he thinks to himself.

Bad Cop introduces them. "Mr. Stark, Agents Ramos and Lancaster, FBI. We're bringing you in for questioning in connection with the death of Army General Thaddeus Ross."

Tony feigns shock. "General Ross is dead? What happened?"

"That's what we're here to find out," says Good Cop.

Tony doesn't have time for this, but he can see they're not going to leave him alone. Why not toy with them a little? "Is this an April Fool's joke?" He asks, "are you two strippers? It's kind of early in the morning for strippers, don't you think? Not that I'm complaining," he adds with a lascivious leer.

Good Cop, to his credit, remains unfazed. "General Ross was expected to arrive at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in the early hours of Saturday, March 30th, but failed to report. Air Force personnel initiated a search operation and found him deceased and his vehicle destroyed."

Bad Cop cuts to the chase. "Where were you between one and two a.m. on Saturday morning, Mr. Stark?"

"Wait, you think _I_ did it?" Tony gasps, insulted and incredulous. "Guys. Guys, seriously. I'm a _superhero_. Why would I kill somebody for no good reason?"

"Again, that's what we're here to find out," Good Cop replies.

"We have visual confirmation of Iron Man flying past Columbus en route to Dayton on the morning of the 30th," says Bad Cop. "Are you going to deny that you were in the vicinity at the time of the General's death?"

"Not at all," says Tony pleasantly, "but that was pure coincidence."

"We have a lot more to discuss with you, Mr. Stark," Good Cop says, "just come with us and—"

"I'm fine right here, actually," Tony replies.

Bad Cop scowls. "You're coming with us one way or another. Quietly would be best."

"Yeah, how about no?"

"We're just here for information," Good Cop insists, "just want to ask you a few questions is all."

"Are these the nice-bright-room-with-a-two-way-mirror kind of questions or the underground-black-site-with-a-cattle-prod kind of questions?" Tony asks. He's been through enough of the latter for one lifetime. "Sorry, but I can't help with your investigation. I don't know anything."

"You were in the same place at the same time," argues Bad Cop.

"So were hundreds of airmen and random civilians," Tony retorts, "are you going to interrogate all of them too? I told you, it was just a coincidence."

Good Cop hesitates a while, nervous, sweating. "We have evidence suggesting you and your technology were involved in the incident," he finally admits.

"Not evidence," says Bad Cop, " _proof_." He takes a photo from his pocket and pushes it in Tony's face.

Whoever took this shot was a pro. It's a perfectly focused portrait of Tony's revenge, every detail giving itself up to the blinding flash and the jumping shutter. Singe marks on the the uniform, four stars all burnt up, gobs of jellied blood plastering the hair to the scalp, rigor mortis locking the muscles of the face in a freeze-frame of defiance and rage that fails to touch the open eyes, which stare, dead and glazed, out of the frame at nothing.

Tony was the last thing those eyes ever saw—Tony standing over Ross wearing his executioner's glove, Tony taking his wretched life as payment for his suffering, Tony unbroken, stronger now, and finally where he should be: _winning_. Ross will carry the sight with him down to hell. He'll carry it with him forever. The thought stirs up a dank, satisfying warmth in the pit of Tony's stomach, the same kind of warmth a predator drinks from the neck of a fresh kill.

He looks again at the photo, at the mangled thing he left at the side of the road, at the perfectly circular hole through the chest, edges cauterized and crisp. He blasted right through that awful, twisted heart of Ross's; it's nothing but carbon now, drifting on the wind. Part of Tony tingles with regret now, because it was too quick. Too merciful. He should have killed the bastard a little at a time, should have drained him and driven him mad with electric shocks for days. He should have made him think he was drowning again and again and then drowned him for real.

"This is a wound from a repulsor weapon," says Bad Cop, "and the world's only producer of repulsor weapons is you."

The innocent facade drops like a velvet curtain as Tony grins wide. "One hell of a coincidence, isn't it?" He asks, flashing his teeth at them, sharp and animal.

"W-we'd like you to come with us now, Mr. Stark," Good Cop stammers.

Tony lifts an amused eyebrow. "Make me."

Bad Cop, patience exhausted, lunges at him. Predictable. Tony dodges smoothly and sends a jolt of thought down to the implant in his arm. The tower responds, a buzz of circuitry in his inner ear, and from somewhere up high and unseen, a turret fires a warning beam at the doorstep. It leaves a charred spot on the welcome mat.

"Shit!" Shouts Good Cop, drawing his handgun.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Tony cautions. "You're surrounded by a powerful magnetic field right now; you fire that round and there are no guarantees where it'll end up." Which isn't true, but they don't know that. "So why don't you two run on back and tell your boss you're in over your head?"

Bad Cop toes the burnt spot on the ground, then looks at Good Cop and nods. He knows when he's outgunned. He gets in a parting shot before he leaves, telling Tony, "you robbed this country of one of its finest military men. You'll answer for your crimes."

"I rid this country of a gutless coward and a psychotic mass murderer," Tony replies. "and I'm not going to apologize for that. Hell, they should give me another medal."

Bad Cop glowers but says nothing, and Tony lets go of his breath as the agents retreat out of sight.

After that, he gets another three days of peace, of pretending everything's normal, before Natasha ambushes him on the mezzanine above the workshop.

"I need you to hit me," she says. She has a gun to his head.

"Uh, no thanks?" Tony answers, hands up in the air. "I'm not really into that kind of thing, I'm more of a—"

"Save it," Natasha interrupts, "SHIELD wants you. They've sent me to retrieve you. I won't, but it's in your best interest to make it look like you put up a good fight."

"Wow, slow down, can we talk about this? Has SHIELD even told you why they—"

"Tony, I know what you did."

 _Shit._ "Did you tell Bruce? or Steve?"

"I haven't told a soul," Natasha says, "but everyone's going to find out very, very soon. How long did you expect to keep it a secret? You didn't even try to cover your tracks." She's looking at him with equal parts pity and frustration.

"It's all part of the plan. I have a plan," Tony tries to explain. This is what he keeps repeating to himself, too.

"What plan? _What plan?_ " Natasha demands. "After we worked so hard to save you, did you _plan_ to throw everything into the wind? To break this fragile truce, to void the contract that keeps Bruce out of the government's reach, to fire the opening salvo in what's about to become a _very_ bloody free-for-all—just so you could fulfill your stupid, selfish desire for vengeance?" Her grip on the gun is tight; her hand doesn't shake at all. "I told you, I told you so many fucking times. Don't twist the chains."

"It had to be done," Tony replies, his eyes drifting up to the barrel of the gun, trying to decide if it's loaded.

"You're wrong. SHIELD's kept a decades-long psych profile on Ross, and the analysts agreed—with Betty dead and Bruce taken away from him, he had nothing left. He would have killed himself within a year."

Well. That's bittersweet. "You couldn't have told me earlier?"

"Didn't want to put any ideas in your head. In hindsight, I should have said something. If you'd waited for him to do the job himself, you could have avoided this mess."

"It doesn't matter," says Tony, "it's not the same. Wouldn't have meant the same." _Wouldn't have tasted this good._

"I know." Natasha shakes her head. "Fuck, I know. I understand. That's why I'm sparing you today. But you have to know, Tony, this is the last compromise I'll make for you. I can't stay on your side of this line you've drawn. I'm not Iron Man, I'm not the Hulk—I'm a soft target. The powerful enemies you've made would skin me alive."

"You're deserting me again."

"I have to put myself first. You understand."

Tony tries to swallow down the fear rising in his chest. If Natasha goes, Clint goes too. Who else will abandon him? He knew revenge would come at a price; he now thinks he maybe underestimated that price. "Come on, Natasha, we're a team. I'll protect you. So will Bruce, and Thor, and Steve."

"No," she smiles sadly, "you won't. Not when the enemy surrounds us and I become dead weight—dead, ordinary, human weight." She tilts her head at the railing on the mezzanine and the twelve-foot drop to the workshop floor below. "Now throw me down there. I need some convincing bruises."

"It doesn't have to be this way," Tony insists.

"It _didn't_ have to be this way," Natasha replies.

"You won't be safe at SHIELD. You're only a pawn in their schemes."

"We look after our own," says Natasha, unflinching.

"I can't change your mind?"

"No. Throw me over."

"Take your finger off the trigger."

"Magazine's empty." She lowers the gun. _Click-click_.

He stares at her, unable to move. She's waiting. "Can't you jump?" He asks.

She puts the gun away. "Oh, all right."

Her fall is swift and graceless, probably on purpose, and she tucks and rolls and hits the ground with a sickening _smack_. "SHIELD will come for you again," she shouts, getting back up, "maybe not tomorrow, maybe not for a long time, but they will come. I suggest you make yourself scarce."

"Noted," Tony shouts back, "thanks. And sorry."

Is he, though?

The whole week, no one asks what happened to Natasha. She comes and goes all the time, after all. At least she warned him the whole thing was about to blow wide open. It's too late for Tony to change course now, too late for him to back out. He's headed straight for an asteroid belt with no light to guide him but the lashing corona of the distant sun at his back. All he can do is fly on—close his eyes and steer.

He takes the brown envelope from his desk drawer and digs up Christine Everhart's mailing address. They fucked only once, years ago, but he'll always remember how damn _hungry_ she was all the time. Like a black hole in his bed. Food and sex were well and good, but the only thing she ever really wanted was truth.

He'll send her a good meal today. She'll share it with the world.


	23. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray, a Steve POV chapter!

"You did good today, Rogers. All our brothers are going home safe thanks to you."

Steve's cheeks flush. "I did my job, Chief, just like everyone else."

"Well, it's a job you were born for," says the fire chief, "or made for, I guess." He exchanges a fist bump with Steve before leaving.

 _Made_. The word sticks in Steve's head as he cleans off his helmet, puts away his boots, and hangs up his protective gear. All in all, he's a good eighty pounds heavier when he's suited up for a call, but the weight doesn't slow him down one bit. Extinguishers and axes feel like toys in his hands as he stampedes through burning buildings without a care for the flames and smoke. The tissues of his body regenerate as than they burn; he only wears the fireproof suit so other people won't gawk.

No one else knows this feeling, this ascendancy, this strength. He was made this way, made superhuman by the serum—but he's something _other_ than human, too. Steve still hasn't figured out if he's allowed to have it both ways. And he's always at war inside, has been since the day he was made, with the idea that what he is is something _better_ than human.

It was a gift, the serum. It was also a transaction. Erskine made him a super soldier, Howard made him Captain America, and the Allies made him their champion, their hope, the star-spangled man with a plan to save the world.

He can't, though. He can't end wars on his own. He can't save everyone who needs saving. Even if Steve lives longer than Thor and becomes richer than Tony and smarter than Bruce, he'll never solve all the world's problems. People fighting and killing each other, people without food, without homes, people who stay sick because they can't afford to get well. Greed, disease, corruption, hate—there are things in this world Steve can't destroy by smashing them with his shield, things that are bigger and more devastating than any killer robot or HYDRA agent.

He does all he can. It's all he can do. But it'll never be enough. Living with that knowledge is the price he pays for his power.

With his equipment taken care of, Steve goes to the firehouse's kitchen, where the guys have just finished cooking dinner. He's on cleaning duty tonight; assuming they don't get another call, it's the last job he has to finish before the end of his shift. He scrapes the sauce remnants out of the cookware and gets to work scrubbing the countertops and burners. He'll collect everyone's plates and start the dishwasher when they're done eating. For now, he helps himself to some pasta and heads to the common room to catch the baseball game on TV. Walking down the hallway, chewing on his rigatoni, Steve notices it's awfully quiet tonight. He's used to hearing a lot more shouting from the common room when the guys are watching a big game.

They aren't watching the big game.

CNN is on. The reporter reads a warning about graphic images that may upset some viewers, and everyone in the room pauses mid-chew and gapes at the gory photographs flashing across the screen. Steve recognizes General Ross instantly, recognizes the exact size and shape of the hole blown clear through his chest. He thinks he might throw up. _Mother of god, Tony. What did you do._

The reporter keeps talking, but her words are just vague syllables, their meaning sluicing away somewhere between the TV and Steve's ears. _Wright-Patterson, Ohio_ , he hears, _FBI. Assassination. Cover-up. Iron Man. Criminal investigation. National security. Murder trial. Public safety. Superhero bill._

This can't be true. He doesn't want to believe it. There must be some other explanation. Tony's been framed, set up by a business rival. Ross is alive, the photos are fake, and it's some kind of Suit Watch conspiracy. Anything, Steve thinks, anything but Tony making the choice to break the silence, to put himself before the team, to crash through the floodgates knowing full well what he was unleashing, and—worst of all—to _lie_ about it.

 _I just wanted to fly_ , he said, and Steve knew. He _knew_. He could see it in Tony's eyes. But this is how it's always been between them, isn't it? When they got together, when Tony joined them with brute force and a blowtorch, Steve knew Tony was using him, playing him like a harp, but he opened his heart and his legs and sang him a sweet song all the same. A song for loneliness, for love—because loving Tony Stark means getting comfortable with denial. It means pretending like he doesn't tell more lies than truths.

Lord only knows what else Steve's been pretending at all this time.

He doesn't care that Ross is dead. He's glad. How could he not be? The man was a monster. But this isn't about Ross. This is about Tony, sick, broken Tony, who came home nearly dead and screamed defiance in his sleep and flinched away from the sound of running water so minutely, he must have thought no one ever noticed. It's about Tony, who takes without asking, who always gets what he wants, and now he's gotten what he wanted and damned himself and the Avengers in the process.

Steve could kick his ass right now. He could hold him tight and never let him go. He doesn't know which is right, he doesn't know if he's mad or sad or both.

He's let Tony down. He should have done more to help him, something more than splinting his bones and giving in to his demands to make him bleed and fuck him stupid. He sees now what he's been deliberately unseeing every time he looks at Tony: love alone can't make him whole again. The man he pulled out of that torture chamber wasn't the same man he lost in the tower siege.

 _I'm not crazy_ —if Tony's said it once, he's said it a thousand times, but to hell with consent. Steve should have thrown him over his shoulder, bruises and fractured ankles and all, and hauled him straight to the nearest head doctor. Maybe then things wouldn't have come to this. But loving Tony Stark means pretending like everything's fine when nothing's fine. You do your best to take the pain away, but sometimes your best just isn't enough.

The sound from the TV cuts off suddenly, and the reporter's face turns to squares and lines. "Hey, what happened? Did a cable come loose?" Asks one of the guys in the room, who's also called Steve. (There are five Steves working here. It gets confusing at times.) He stands up to check the box, and the screen goes blank.

When the picture comes back, it's Tony and not the reporter who faces the camera. His workshop is visible in the background, and Steve doesn't remember that giant pile of trash being there before. He stares helplessly at the screen as Tony begins to speak.

"Hey, everybody. Tony Stark here—superhero, clean energy pioneer, and all-around good guy. By now you've probably heard about my _alleged_ assassination of a renowned army general. The FBI has accused me of this crime based on flimsy, circumstantial evidence, and I'm here to tell you, for the record..." he trails off. Scratches his nose. Looks straight at the camera with dark, dark eyes. "Yeah. I did it."

A hush falls over the room. Steve wants to look away, but he can't stop watching. _Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ._

Tony's not done talking yet. "Thaddeus Ross may have been a decorated war vet, but he was the worst kind of coward. He was afraid of me, afraid of the Avengers and everyone like us: superhumans, or in his words, 'monsters and mutants'. He feared our power. He wanted to take it away. He wanted to kill my friend, Bruce Banner, also known as the Hulk, also known as the man who saved our planet by punching a dozen giant alien liveships in the face."

Pictures of the Chitauri battle appear on the screen next to Tony. He continues, "Ross and his troops attacked my tower, our home. He couldn't find Bruce Banner. He took me instead." New pictures, now: the snapshots Clint took as evidence during their rescue mission. "This is the cell where I was kept," says Tony slowly, "and tortured. Those are the chains I wore, that's my blood on the wall. This is where I was beaten, flogged, electrocuted. If any of you sick fucks want to know all the gory details, you can read Ross's torture report." He holds a sheaf of paper up in front of the camera. "Each hour I was in there, each day, is accounted for right here. Every major news outlet in the world has a copy, and you can download it from whichever illicit file-sharing network happens to be your favorite." Tony puts down the report. "Ross was determined to hunt down, experiment on, and kill the Hulk," he says, "and that was just the beginning. Here, listen to this."

He reaches over to push a button. A loud background hum kicks up before Ross's voice breaks through. _"You and Banner and the rest of your freak show, you aren't the only game in town. We have files on all of you. There's a kid who dresses like a spider and climbs up the walls. A German man who controls metal with his mind. And when I'm through with Banner, I will hunt down every one of you abominations and put you in the ground."_

 _"You're talking about extrajudicial killing. Going rogue,"_ says Tony's recorded voice, so weak and distorted it makes Steve's heart ache.

 _"Nothing rogue about it,"_ comes Ross's voice, _"the bill goes up in front of Congress soon."_

Tony pushes the button again. "Bill number 15549," he tells the camera, "will give the government the power to indefinitely detain suspected superhumans for 'threat assessment and containment'. They're going to make lab rats out of us, out of every superhuman in the country. And listen, this is important. There are more of us—more of _you_ —out there than everyone thinks. Make no mistake about it: what Ross wanted, and what this new law authorizes, is nothing less than genocide."

The picture turns wavy and distorted. The news reporter's face flickers over Tony's, like the TV station is trying to wrestle back control of their broadcast. It doesn't work.

Tony exhales loudly. "And that's the truth," he says. "That's what happened at my tower. That's why I've been missing for so long. That's why I killed General Ross. I was imprisoned and tortured by my own government, and I had zero recourse. The law wouldn't give me justice, so I had to take it for myself. And I'll keep fighting injustice and evil to the end; I'll make the world a safer place for everyone, human and superhuman alike, and if you don't like that, well. You know where I live." He smiles. "Come and get me."

And he's gone.

The black screen remains for a long, long moment before CNN's newsroom reappears. A red light flashes. The reporter has left her desk. The camera crew run back and forth across the frame, their hands laden with wires and equipment.

Everyone in the common room starts talking all at once.

"Was that real," says Rich.

"Oh my god," says Connor.

"I feel sick. My kids look up to that guy," says Don.

That's when the yelling starts. Half the guys are standing up for Tony while the other half rip him to pieces. _Murderer. Nut job. Criminal. Piece of shit hiding in a metal suit, does he think he's above the law?_

People have said far worse things about Tony before. He's an opportunist and a liar, a war profiteer without a conscience, ruthless, unfeeling, and so in love with himself that he doesn't know how to care for anybody else—Steve's never believed any of it. He doesn't want to believe it. He knows Tony better than that.

And yet, and yet.

Watching him confess sent chills running up and down Steve's spine. Something about the triumph, the glee, felt so uncanny, so ugly. So familiar. _The law couldn't give me justice, so I took it for myself_ —Tony takes what he wants. It's what he does. Maybe, thinks Steve, on the level where he operates, love and vengeance break down into the same base elements. It's about what Tony wants, it's about what Tony needs. Maybe that's all it means to him. That's all it's ever meant.

Maybe loving Tony Stark means pretending like he can love you back.

Steve's never been more sure about anything his whole life. He's never been less sure about anything his whole life.

He can't have it both ways.

"Shit," he whispers.

It must have been louder than he thought, because everyone stops and stares at him.

"Steve," says the other Steve, "are you okay, man? You look pale."

"You and Tony Stark," says Naveen, "are the two of you still..?" Teammates, he means teammates. Just two guys who fight aliens together sometimes. Almost no one outside of the tower knows Steve and Tony are anything more.

"We're still working together," Steve answers carefully.

Naveen waves at the TV. "And did you know about...?"

 _Which part?_ "No. God, no. He never let on. I would have stopped him." _How?_ "At least, I would have tried."

"What are you going to do now?" Asks Connor.

Steve wishes he knew. His head's still spinning from the shock. "I'm on kitchen duty," he manages at last.

"I'll cover you," Rich offers right away.

"Yeah, we got this," says Don. "Go on, get out of here. Go straighten him out."

 _Easier said than done,_ thinks Steve as he sprints out the back door.


	24. Consequences

Steve's mad at him. Clint's mad at him. _Everyone's_ mad at him.

He was sleeping, actually honestly fucking for real _sleeping_ , when Steve burst in and shook him awake and said, "you lied to me."

Tony rubbed his eyes to clear the haze of sleep. "Uh. Sorry?"

"You killed him—you lied to my _face_ —"

"Oh," said Tony, "that happened, huh."

Steve stared at him. "'That happened'? That's all you can say?"

"It was a recorded video, not a live feed," Tony mumbled, "I set it to drop automatically as soon as the army went public with the story."

"That's not the point, Tony, for god's sake! Why didn't you tell me anything?"

Tony sat up, fully awake now, heartbeat catching up. "Because I had to protect you," he replied. "I kept you in the dark to keep you safe."

"You looked me in the eye and told me everything was fine," Steve said, and Tony sensed—felt, sharp against his skin—the knife-edge of betrayal in his voice. "We had a deal, Tony. No more lies."

This meant so, so much to him. Secrets withered under his light. "No more lies," Tony echoed.

"Then let's try this again," said Steve. "Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell _me_?"

"I had to protect you," Tony repeated, and sighed. "I'm no fool, Steve. I know what I've done, I know what happens next. If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting. I’m going down alone."

Steve went white, stunned and speechless. His face was the face Tony imagined a bot would make at an input it didn't know how to process. "No, you, you can't," Steve stammered, "there has to be another way."

"This is the only way." Tony had known since the beginning, in a vague, far-off way, that this was how things had to play out, but it took Natasha leaving for him to really come to terms with it. Even now, he could barely make sense of the words coming out of his mouth. "I’m not going to drag you and the rest of the team down with me."

"Tony," Steve said sadly, "if you understood what _team_ meant, you’d know that’s not your call to make."

" _Team_ means we look out for each other," Tony countered, "and keeping you guys out of it was the best way for me to do that." He wasn't lying this time; he loved his team, he truly did. He'd endure two more lifetimes of torture before he saw any of them hurt.

"It goes both ways," insisted Steve, "we can't look out for you if you don't let us in on your plans."

Tony stood fast. "Not this time. This is all on me."

"Why?" Steve protested, "why does it have to—" he cut himself off with a frustrated growl. "Why did you do it, why did you throw everything away for this?"

"I had to," Tony murmured.

"You wanted to," Steve said.

"I _had_ to," said Tony, "I had to end it. I couldn’t let him live. It was eating me alive."

"Fuck." Steve dropped his head into his hands. "Tony, I'm so sorry. I should have done more. I should have helped you, I should have helped you."

"I don't need help," Tony snapped, "not from you, not from anyone. I'm _fine_." He was breathing faster now, his knuckles turning white. "You have to stay out of it. I like you better when you're alive and free—it's the only reason I fight now. And yeah, maybe I've picked a fight with an impossible enemy this time, but I'm not going to let anyone else get tangled in the web."

"But we are," Steve replied. "All of us have been tangled in the web since the very beginning. Bruce and Betty, SHIELD, Natasha, Clint, your revenge has put everyone in danger."

"I’ll keep you safe," vowed Tony. "Anyone who tries to hurt you, to hurt any of you, will die. Anyone. I’ll destroy them. I’ll set fire to the planet and everyone on it if that’s what it takes to keep you safe." He can almost feel the flames, black as tar, licking at his feet. "And if things get bad—if things get really bad—they can have me, they can burn me alive, but they'll never get you. I promise."

"Dear god," Steve cried, "Tony, are you listening to yourself? Do you understand what you're saying, do you know how crazy it sounds?"

Tony flinched like he'd been hit, and his reflexes told him to hit back harder. He locked eyes with Steve. "Say that again. Say that word again."

Steve looked stricken. “Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that—I didn’t mean it that way—"

“You never say anything you don’t mean. I want to hear it again, Steve. Say it." Sound of a rattle, sound of a bell. One word could break them, if they let it.

“I didn't mean anything by it. Please, please, don’t do this," Steve begged.

"I _am_ listening to myself," said Tony, "I'm listening so hard, and this metal heart of mine just keeps ticking like a time bomb, telling me over and over that I don't have any other choice." He covered his reactor with his hand, a mass to damp the oscillations, mute the ticking ticking talking, flesh on metal, ineffectual. "This mission I’m on, it’s the kind of mission where I go in alone and I probably don’t come back. You made the same decision when you crashed the _Valkyrie_."

And then Steve snapped, not back with the power of a bowstring or a whip, but quietly, in two, like a baby bird, a sodden clump of down, freshly trod on. "It's not the same at all!" He whimpered, "have you lost your fucking mind?"

"Go on. Say it," Tony demanded.

Steve looked for all the world like he would snap his neck right then and there. Every muscle in his body tensed—coiled, and then went slack. Defeated, halting, he sobbed out, "you're crazy."

The words rang out like an air raid siren, and unbidden tears came streaming down the sides of Tony's nose, his cheeks. Parasympathetic activation. Treachery. One word could tear them apart, and he wasn't sure he was strong enough to stop it.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," Steve choked out, "I didn't mean it. You're not crazy, Tony, you're not. It's just, when I think about that word, that plane, that's my last memory from...from before," he said, his last word barely a whisper, a shape with no breath at its back. Steve's entire body shook like Yellowstone on doomsday, pitching and heaving with the force of his sobs.

"No, I'm sorry," Tony said, wiping at his own stinging eyes. "I'm an asshole, I should have dropped it, I didn't mean to make you—"

"I lost everything, everyone I loved," Steve sniffed, hardly listening anymore, "I can't go through that again. Once is bad enough. Twice is too much for any man to bear. And now, and now, you're going to, going to..." he hiccuped and wiped his nose. "I don't want to lose you too."

"You won't," said Tony feebly.

Steve cupped Tony's face in his broad, strong hands. "It scares me so much to hear you talk about going down alone. After everything that's happened, after you came so close to the edge, how can you be so—so _careless_ about it?"

The salt of their tears mingled and dried on his palms, and Tony had no answer for him.

"If you fight alone, you'll die," said Steve, "and I love you, god knows why but I fucking love you, and if you die it will destroy me, can't you get that through your thick skull? Christ in heaven, you must be the stupidest genius I've ever met." He tipped Tony's chin towards him, blue eyes shining like sea ice, rimmed in red. "You're not alone. You're never alone. Never. Do you hear me?"

"Things change," was all Tony could say, and Steve pulled back and curled his legs to his chest. They sat stiff in a silence punctuated by sniffles and hitching breaths.

Steve looked down at his shoes, lost in thought for a time before speaking again. "Are you—are you happy you got what you wanted? Are you happy with yourself, with what you've done?"

Tony didn't know. "No," he replied at last, "there's still a lot left to do. If Congress passes that bill, they'll start a witch hunt." He shuddered. "I have to protect the people who can't protect themselves. I meant what I said in my video, you know. I want to save the world."

A ghost of a smile touched Steve's lips. "Me too. But I'm not sure I want to do it your way."

"I'm not one for compromise," said Tony.

"Sometimes _team_ means compromise. We're in this together, aren't we?"

Tony just looked helplessly at him. He didn't want to lie again.

His silence spoke for itself. Without a word, Steve turned and left, a wounded eagle dragging the weight of its wings on two ragged claws.

They haven't spoken for days now. Clint didn't react much better; he and Pepper took turns yelling at Tony before interrogating him about strategy and what he planned to do next. Thor cautioned him against kicking the hornets' nest, and where does he get off being all high and mighty about this? As Tony understands it, he was banished from Asgard for doing something even stupider.

When Betty found out, she cried and hugged him so hard he thought his lungs would collapse. Bruce said nothing, his face blank and drawn as he went down into the Hulk-proof lab and disabled the video feed.

And Natasha, Natasha was gone.

Everything's turned quiet. Tense. The tower's an iron chamber filling slowly with dead air. Rioting crowds throb and swell on the streets outside, throwing rocks and garbage, trashing the security drones. Saves him the trouble of taking them apart.

Tony retreats to the shadow of the junk pile and gets back to work, feverish and frantic, loading up on every stimulant he can get his hands on. For days the only voice he hears belongs to JARVIS, dear, sweet JARVIS, the ghost who haunts the wires, memory modules and plasma circuits aflame with eternal life. He keeps time, commands the drones, and offers kind words in his comforting, mechanical way. He's tracking the documents and recordings that Tony leaked online, too. They've spread to every corner of the globe, even to space stations and Antarctic research bases. People are uploading them faster than the government can take them down.

It's a cold, lonely place Tony's driven himself to, and he knows the road ahead is lined with sacrifices and severed ties. He faces the bleak horizon with hope alive in his metal heart—hope that Steve will come around and see things his way, that Bruce will unlock that unbreakable door and let someone in, let himself out. Tony hopes for the best. He plans for the worst. He's made a map for every scenario.

Some things, though, he doesn't foresee.

The firestorm descends on the day of Ross's funeral.

It's a somber, dignified ceremony at the Arlington National Cemetery. Full honors, a brigade dressed in black, seventeen rifles, a folded flag. A bugler and a solemn eulogy. Then out of nowhere come the gunshots and grenades, the masked attackers, the panic, the screaming, the chains of explosions, the injured, the dead. When the smoke clears, the casket's empty.

Tony puts down his tools and stares open-mouthed at the video footage. "What the everloving fuck?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, sir," replies JARVIS from the ceiling.


	25. It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, things have been busy!

His phone pings. It's Christine Everhart. _Arlington. Was it you?_

 _No_ , Tony texts back.

_You're for real, aren't you?_

Tap, tap. _Always_. Send.

This changes everything. The gears in Tony's head are grinding and shrieking, stuck in place, chewing up his plans and projections like a snake eating its own tail. The entire system pivots like an armature about this moment, and Tony realizes with dread that he no longer knows all the variables. He's made a grave error, letting Natasha go, pushing Steve away. He needs to recalibrate.

He needs his team.

He catches Clint as he's leaving the tower, huge black trunk in tow. Clint frowns when he sees Tony approaching. "Tony, I don't know what to say. You really shat the bed this time."

"I didn't do it," Tony says.

"Doesn't matter," Clint answers, "everyone's going to think you did."

"I didn't."

"Then who did?" Says Clint. "Look, I'm just saying. It's not an easy job, crashing a military funeral. That coffin had more security than the President, and those guys in the masks cut through them like nothing. These aren't small-time mercenaries or terrorist wannabes—they were hired killers, professional killers, and they had a _plan_. An op like that's not cheap. The loadout, the logistics, the MO, it all points to someone with a lot of money and a giant grudge against Ross."

That's...that's a pretty damning picture, when he puts it that way. But Tony knows it isn't true. "Clint, listen to me. _I didn't do it_."

Clint takes a long, hard look at him. "Okay," he decides, "I believe you."

Tony sighs with relief. "Good. Now take your stuff back upstairs and come meet me at the command center, okay? We have to talk strategy."

But Clint just shakes his head, heavy and sorrowful. "There's no more 'we', Tony. I don't know about Bruce and everyone else, but I'm done. I can't stay here."

"Hold on, you just said—"

"I said everyone's going to think you did it, and you can't prove you didn't," Clint interrupts. "The truth doesn't mean shit. Whatever sympathy people had left for you is gone now, and I don't want to be around when the angry mob or the police or the army or whoever comes for you."

"It's not like you to give up on a fight before it even starts," Tony tries.

"Some fights, the only way to come out alive is to run like hell," Clint replies.

Tony keeps pressing. "Not this fight. Come on, Clint, we're a team. When we stand together, we're invincible."

"I think I never belonged on this team in the first place," Clint mutters. "Captain America, the Hulk, Thor the thousand-year-old alien god, Iron Man the walking weapon of mass destruction...and me? I'm just a guy. And now I'm a sitting duck. Sorry, Tony. We had a good run, but you closed the book on us when you killed Ross."

Tony groans. "That's exactly what Natasha said."

"We're the same. No superpowers. You know how she always changes the subject when you ask if she's had work done, but—hey, wait a minute." Clint furrows his brow. "Tasha left on a mission last Thursday. Your video dropped on Monday. How'd she know about...?"

Tony waits for him to put the pieces together.

" _You_ were Tasha's mission." Clint's eyes go wide with horror. "But you're still here. How?" His lip curls and he's on Tony in a flash, fist closed around his collar, breath warm on his skin. "Did you hurt her? What did you do?"

"Nothing! Nothing!" Tony cries, hands flailing. "She let me go. Went back to SHIELD HQ on her own."

"Made a different call." Clint sounds almost proud. He lets go of Tony's shirt. "She could have told me what was going on," he says ruefully, " _you_ could have told me."

"You're a spy. You know the value of a secret," Tony answers.

"Why'd you have to go after him in the first place," Clint laments. "We had one chance, and you blew it."

"You told me to move on," Tony says quietly, "that was me moving on."

Clint shoulders his bags and grabs the handle of his trunk. "I'm going to miss movie night."

"Me too," Tony's about to say, but he's interrupted by Steve barreling down the hallway and putting on the brakes when he spots Tony. "What the _fuck_ ," Steve demands, not even remotely out of breath.

"I don't know yet," Tony says, "but I'm going to find out who—"

"Don't play games with me, Tony. Killing Ross was one thing, but stealing his _corpse_? And all those innocent people at Arlington..." Steve's voice crackles and crazes, strained with desperation. "You've gone too far."

"It wasn't me!" Tony protests. He looks to Clint for backup, but he's vanished. Slipped away like a shade.

"Where's the body," Steve asks coldly.

"I don't know," Tony yells, and why the fuck is Steve asking him? Why isn't the truth good enough for him—why isn't Tony's _word_ good enough for him? Why does he believe with all his heart that Tony's a murderer?

_Because I am, I guess._

"Tony. Where's the body."

" _I don't know_!" Tony cries, throwing up his hands, "I had nothing to do with this!" Denial, denial. He's been at it all his life, but doing it for real still feels new to him.

"You promised you wouldn't lie to me." The hurt on Steve's face is plain to see.

"I'm not lying. Please, you have to believe me," Tony entreats. "You know me better than anyone. You can see right through me. You know when I'm telling the truth."

Steve laughs harshly. "Considering our history, Tony, that's a cruel joke to make."

He's right. He's right, and it hurts. "Hook me up to a lie detector and I'll prove it," Tony says.

Steve gives him a weary, worn-out look. "You learned how to fool a lie detector when you were nine. Don't you remember telling me that?"

 _Why did I tell him that_ , Tony moans to himself. _Come on, think! How do I prove I didn't_ —"my account books," he suddenly remembers, "check my account books. Pepper has the passwords."

"She showed me," Steve starts to say.

"Which means you know I'm not bankrolling any hitmen or mercenaries, so why do you think I—"

"I saw the cash withdrawals," Steve interrupts, "you spaced them out, but the amounts were huge. It adds up to a million and change. What do you need all that cash for?" He asks, and it sounds like a dare. Like a trap.

"That...that's for something else," says Tony. He's saving that money for the rainy day when the Feds freeze his assets and lock him out of his accounts. "Let me explain."

"I don't want to hear it," Steve snaps. The force of it leaves shockwaves in its wake.

"Steve, please just listen to me...!"

"I'm done listening to you," Steve says softly, "I can't take this anymore, Tony. You kill and you lie, and you kill, and you lie, and you make enemies out of armies, and I just. I can't. I can't live through every day thinking you may not be alive tomorrow."

Tony can't help but scoff at that. "Don't worry about me, I'll cut down anyone who stands in my way. I can do it with my eyes closed. Hell, I can do it with a _thought_."

"I know you can," says Steve, "I'm afraid you don't want to."

For a moment, Tony's shocked into silence. "Seriously?" He asks, recovering, " _that's_ what this is about? You think I have some kind of death wish, that I started this war so I could lose on purpose and—and, what, get myself executed?"

Steve's eyes are full of mourning, dark as the sky before a storm. "Execution's a kindness. In my nightmares, you take a rocket to the gut and I have nothing left of you to bury."

Tony doesn't remember the last time he had a nightmare so earthly, so mundane. "Steve. Steve, you've got it all wrong. This isn't martyrdom or some grandiose exhibition of suicide; it's a fight, a real fight, a crusade. And with any luck, it'll be a while yet before I'm in the ground."

"Then what about all your talk about going down alone?" Asks Steve. "And don't tell me that was just a lot of hot air. I felt it—you wanted it, you meant it."

Fucking hell, it's maddening how Steve knows him so well while simultaneously not knowing him at all. He is both the observer and the effect, a piercing light of obliteration in Tony's darkest places. "It's nothing like that. It's more that I—I know where this leads, and I'm going in with my eyes open. I've signed my own death warrant, and I've accepted that, but it doesn't mean I'm going to lie down and let them roll a tank over me. I'm not going down without a fight."

"Fight or die, kill or be killed," Steve surmises, "I don't like either of those options."

"That's life," Tony replies, "that's war." He's convinced himself of this, too.

"There's another way," says Steve.

"Surrender is for the gutless and the French," Tony quips.

But Steve doesn't crack a smile. "Return the body and hand yourself in," he urges, "give up this hopeless fight. Please, please, don't throw away your life."

"It's too late for that," says Tony, "and it's not a waste of life, it's not a waste if people remember me for doing something good. For making a better world."

"So many people are going to die for the sake of your better world," whispers Steve. "Tony, I can't do this any longer. I can't stand by you, what you've become." He gazes down the hallway. "I have to go."

Tony knew this was coming. He knew the whole time. He knows there's nothing he can do to stop it, but still he begs, but still he pleads, but still he tries to soothe the hurt he's done and will do in the coming days. "Wait," he calls, "I love you."

Steve's voice quivers, choked with regret, as he replies, "I wish I could believe you."

He walks away. He disappears. All Tony can do is watch.

Helicopters circle the tower's peaks like vultures, and a terrible loneliness sinks deep into his bones. It feels like the end of the world. His team, his friends, his armor, are peeling away forever, one by one, his mass evaporating away into space like so much hydrogen. But momentum is conserved, momentum is always conserved; it's the law of nature, the curse that binds creation, binds humans and stars and dead husks of stars, and despite himself Tony begins to accelerate, whipping furiously about his own axis like a demon pulsar, every beat of his metal heart a radio signal flung out into the vast black nothing.


	26. The Second Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the unplanned hiatus. Things have gotten even busier and I haven't had much time to write.

Less than a week later, Congress passes the superhero bill, and that's only the second most shocking part of Steve's day. The first is standing here in front of him, alive if not exactly well: Phil Coulson, in the flesh. His suit is the same. His hair is the same. His eyes are not the same.

"Captain Rogers," he smiles, "welcome back to SHIELD." The right side of his face droops just the tiniest little bit. Even Steve, with his enhanced senses, can barely tell something's wrong.

"How are you alive," Steve says. "Wait, _are_ you?" Is this a hologram or some other trick? Taken by the sight, all propriety forgotten, he reaches out a tentative hand, not sure where he should touch. Coulson parlays to a handshake, graceful, solid, warm. Steve stares at his hand as it comes away. "But Loki tore you up," he says, "Clint and I carried your casket."

Coulson's expression is unreadable. "Modern medical science is really something," he replies airily.

"But," says Steve, and words fail him. He tries to think of a tactful way to ask _what's wrong with you?_

With a hoarse little broken laugh, Coulson reads his mind and admits, "modern medical science has a long way to go. I'm glad you came, Captain. Walk with me. We'll go to a briefing room and I'll tell you everything."

Steve has to slow down to keep pace with Coulson's awkward, shuffling gait. He's wheezing faintly, as though every step is a tremendous effort. When they finally reach the briefing room, Natasha gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. Beside her, an unusual distance away, Clint leaps a foot in the air and shouts, "fuck!" as he misses his landing, taking a chair and a whiteboard down with him.

"I did knock," Coulson says.

"You're, you're," Clint stammers as Natasha helps him up and rights the furniture, "you were dead."

"I was," says Coulson patiently, "but I was given a second chance. Let's sit down. I'll explain."

"This is going to be a good one," Clint mutters as he pulls out a chair. Natasha follows suit, never taking her eyes off Coulson, watching and waiting for the trap to spring.

"According to the experiment logs," Coulson begins, "I was brought back to life on Christmas Day. SHIELD had uncovered some new research; Director Fury saw a chance, and he took it."

He tells them more. He tells them about the months he lay on the surgeon’s table leaking life like an overripe fruit, about the ventilators, the bright lights, the blindness. He really does tell them everything. After the time Steve's spent with Tony, after everything that's happened and hidden between them, it's a dizzying change of pace. By the time Coulson's done talking, Clint's hands are trembling, his knuckles white. Natasha stares in wonder and curses under her breath in a language Steve assumes is Russian.

"If word gets out that SHIELD can resurrect the dead, things will turn very ugly," she muses.

"We aren't there yet. The treatment is far from perfect," Coulson says. He hesitates a while before placing a folder on the table. "Experiment log three: complications. You don't have to look," he adds, his hand lingering a moment longer before he slides it towards them.

Gingerly, Clint lifts one corner of the cover and peeks at the photographs inside. "Oh, god," he yelps, slamming it shut and shoving it away. He glares at Coulson, wild-eyed. "You'll be okay," he all but demands, "R&D is going to fix it."

Steve only caught a glimpse of a shred of a picture, but now he can't stop staring at Coulson's chest, can't stop imagining the ravaged, rotting land underneath the suit and tie.

"They will," Coulson reassures Clint, "of course. We have plenty more mad scientists in stasis; one of them's bound to come up with something. Exploding collars are very motivating, you know."

No one laughs at his joke.

"Well," says Coulson, "back to business, then." He secrets the folder away and replaces it with another, flipping through the pages with a thoughtful look. "This new law is troubling, but it seems unlikely it'll be widely enforced for now."

"That doesn't make sense," says Clint, "why fast-track a law if you're not going to enforce it?"

"It _will_ be enforced," Coulson clarifies, "selectively."

Steve thinks he knows where this is going; it's Natasha who spells it out. "Against Tony," she realizes. "It's retribution."

"Exactly," replies Coulson. "Tony Stark is deeply unpopular with just about everyone right now. Putting him on trial could take months, even years. This way, they don't have to wait. Punishment is exacted; justice is served."

"Things just keep escalating," Steve laments, "and Tony doesn't intend to go quietly."

"But he does intend to go?" Asks Natasha pointedly, "is all this simply his excuse for ending the world with a bang?"

 _Does it even matter anymore_ , Steve thinks to himself. Whichever path Tony chooses, whether he's fighting for his life or fighting to the death, he leaves a trail of scorch and destruction behind him.

"He's certainly done a fantastic job of engineering his own downfall," Coulson notes. "Arlington sealed the deal."

"He says he didn't do it," says Clint with a shrug.

"You think he was framed?" Natasha ponders. "It _is_ strange that he would confess to one crime and deny the other."

"There's also the matter of the missing corpse. What's your take, Cap?" Coulson asks.

"I don't know," answers Steve. He can't get the facts straight. His head spins and his heart hurts every time he tries to think about it. The money, the confession, the pleading eyes, the knotted scent of fear and desperation that follows Tony wherever he goes, its remnants still clinging to Steve's skin. Even when Tony's not around, he has a way of making everything about himself. "It fits," Steve concludes, "Tony claims he's on some kind of crusade for people with superpowers. Attacking at Ross's funeral sends a message. It fits."

"His video message was a call to arms," Coulson agrees, "a declaration of war. But Stark's actions have endangered the very people he claims to protect. Anti-superhero sentiment is now stronger than it's ever been, thanks in no small part to his crimes; once the state captures him, they'll move on to other targets," Coulson explains, "which complicates SHIELD's plans somewhat."

"Why's that? The law doesn't apply to anyone here," Steve says, and then remembers, "except me."

"You count too. You're one of us," Coulson tells him. "We're prepared to harbor you. To hide you, if the need arises. No, the problem now is that Stark was right about one thing: the world is full of superhumans. I'm talking about thousands of heroes waiting to happen, people with powers that could be of great use to SHIELD," he says. "We've been gathering information and formulating plans since the first case hit our radar ten months ago. We aren't ready for the active recruitment phase yet, but the Senate's decision has forced our hand; we have to move fast if we want to secure these people before they're locked away."

"Any changes to the incident response protocol?" Natasha asks.

"Information suppression and containment are now secondary objectives," Coulson replies. "Securing potential assets is our top priority. We're shifting more resources over to recon and intel, too. It means fewer agents in the field, but these are high-risk operations where we can't afford to go in blind. I don't want a repeat of the Pasadena incident."

Clint groans. "Pasadena didn't have to end the way it did."

"We should have done better," Coulson agrees, "but at least it wasn't a total loss. We gained some valuable intel that day."

Steve has no idea what anyone is talking about. Clint and Natasha must have been in the loop before this meeting, but it's taking him some time to process Coulson's revelations. "Wait a minute," he says, "you mean there are other people like me out there? _Thousands_ of them? How? Has someone figured out a way to synthesize the serum?"

"No," says Coulson, "this is different. Of the powered individuals we're aware of, it seems...well. It seems most of them were born that way."

"How's that possible?" Clint asks. "If they've been around for so long, why didn't we find any until last year?"

"They were ordinary humans until last year," says Coulson, "either that, or we're just awful at our jobs."

That earns him an amused smile from Natasha. "What happened?" She prompts.

"We don't know for sure, but the theory is, it's a rare genetic mutation," Coulson answers, reading from a document in his folder. "It's a dormant gene that isn't normally expressed, but something, somehow, has flipped the switch in some of its carriers. Younger people, mostly, because of something called telomeres. That's what the science division says." He turns the page. "We think the gene may have been activated by the Chitauri invasion. Something they brought here with them—alien contaminants or radiation or something, who knows. The timing lines up," he says, "and it explains why the incident rate in New York City is ten times higher than anywhere else."

Clint draws in a breath and blinks. "Wow. So that's who we've been dealing with."

"Fill me in here," says Steve, "does the gene give people super strength? Regeneration? What kind of abilities are we looking at?"

"It's different for everyone," Coulson replies.

"They're not all like you, Steve," Clint says. "The missions I was on, I saw people walking through walls and making fireworks. And I'm pretty sure another one read my mind."

"There's one who can talk to squirrels," Natasha adds.

"The gene's potential is limitless," says Coulson, "flight, invisibility, telekinesis. That's why the government considers powered people a threat, but we consider them assets. Allies. Most of them don't have a handle on how to use their abilities yet. That's why we have to act now—before things get out of control."

"So what's the mission?" Asks Natasha.

Coulson hands her yet another folder. "You're going to New Orleans with the emergent incident response team. Clint, we need you back in Honolulu. Get to the bottom of the situation, and do it quickly, because things are getting worse over there." He looks at Steve. "As for you, Captain Rogers—I would like you to retrieve Tony Stark."

He's got to be kidding. "I don't think Tony's all that keen on joining SHIELD," says Steve.

Coulson tries to chuckle. It sounds more like a gurgle. "That's fine by me. We wouldn't hire him as an agent if he paid us. No, I have a proposition for him." He lowers his voice. "You know as well as I do that Tony Stark needs help."

"I'm starting to think Tony Stark's beyond help," Steve replies.

"I'm not ready to give up on him," Coulson says, with such gravity and conviction that Steve, for a second, forgets his frail state.

"What did you have in mind?" He asks cautiously.

Coulson makes a humming sound. Again with the gurgle. "Sometimes," he explains, "our operatives are captured by hostile groups. Sometimes they're tortured. It's rare, but it happens. And it leaves its mark on everyone, no matter how strong they are. When they come back to us, we look after them. There's a protocol, and it works."

"You think you can rehabilitate him," says Steve, "a criminal, a murderer, a liar." He winces. Why do the words stab at his heart so?

"A victim," Coulson says softly. "I've read the reports. What Stark endured at the General's hands was savage. Horrific. You can't expect any man to emerge unbroken from an ordeal like that."

"It doesn't excuse his crimes," says Steve, trying to choke down the flare of hope igniting inside of him. SHIELD isn't in the business of favors. When they extend a hand, they expect a hand in return, and Tony likely won't know the price of his peace until he's already paid it.

"He's suffering," says Coulson gently. "He's a good man at heart, but he's lost his way."

Damn it. Steve feels himself swaying. "Do you really think you can fix him," he ventures.

Coulson grasps his hand across the table. "The procedure has a very high success rate, Captain."

God, there's something wrong with this picture, with the way he says the word _procedure_ , with the way Clint stares resolutely up at the ceiling vents and Natasha schools her face into a perfectly neutral absence of expression. Alarm bells are ringing. Red flags are waving. Steve ignores them all.

He wants Tony back. He wants _his_ Tony back. He wants to believe in a Tony who'd never do such terrible things. Steve can't lie to himself, he can't deny that in spite of it all, Tony remains his light, the man he loves with all his heart, the man he'd never admit he fears—but it's all right, that state of things, isn't it? It's all right because Steve loves him, and in his right mind Tony might just love him back.

It's not fucked up at all.

"Okay," he sighs, "I'll do it." _I'll lead him into your trap._

Coulson squeezes his hand and exhales gratefully. "You've made the right decision. With Stark back on the right path, the superhuman law will lose traction. Eventually, they'll have to repeal it. People will see superhumans aren't monsters to be feared—that their powers can be a force for good."

"You are _ever_ the idealist," says Natasha with an indulgent smile.

"This country was built on ideals," Coulson replies, eyes twinkling. "Also, the paperwork for new recruits is easier when they aren't wanted fugitives."

Clint looks troubled. "You've put a lot of work into this."

"I still believe in heroes," says Coulson, "I still believe in Iron Man."

"That's not what I mean," says Clint, flattening his lips in concentration, searching for the words. "You're in charge of this initiative. You must have fought hard to get it off the ground. I'll bet it was you calling the shots from ops central while we were out there corralling mutants." He cards his hands through his hair. "You could've said something. 'Hey, guys, I'm alive.' You know? Would've saved me a lot of, a lot of..." he sighs and glowers at Coulson. "You were _dead_ ," he accuses.

Coulson's careful with his words. "You weren't cleared for that information. And I'm sorry, I know that's not good enough and I owe you more than that—"

"Damn right, you do," Clint mutters.

"All I can say is, I wasn't in good shape," Coulson tells him. "It's true, I've been pulling the strings for a while. I worked from the infirmary's private ward because I needed a tube to breathe. It wouldn't have been good for morale to let people see me in that state. You saw the evidence—if you couldn't deal with a photo, how could you face the real thing?"

"Knowing we had you back would've got me through," says Clint, sounding betrayed, and Steve understands where he's coming from. He understands how secrets and good intentions wound.

Natasha excuses herself in a hurry. New Orleans won't wait, better get going. Steve exits with an urgent mission of his own, leaving Clint and Coulson staring sullenly at one another.

 _Retrieve Tony Stark_. Why'd Coulson ask _him_? Kidnapping's more Natasha's forte, and she'd have done it with brutal efficiency. Tranquilizer dart, handcuffs, done. Target delivered on schedule.

Assuming she could bring herself to do it. Assuming she'd feel no guilt over knocking Tony out, dragging him away, and letting him wake up in chains in an unfamiliar, hostile place, forced to relive his worst nightmares.

Steve's not going to do that, and he thinks Coulson knows it. He wasn't picked for his strength or his speed this time. He's going to have to talk Tony into this somehow, but he's not sure Tony ever wants to speak to him again. Still, he's got to think of something, because for all his reservations about SHIELD and their methods, this could be his only chance to save Tony before it's too late.

He's buoyed by hope, weighed down by fear, fighting to keep his head above the raging currents. Steve hopes to god he's doing the right thing. He hopes his instincts are wrong, because he can't shake this creeping feeling of dread closing in from all four sides.


	27. Phantom Limb

"You could move to Canada," Jane suggests.

"Asgard will offer you asylum," says Thor, and Tony notices Betty's eyes lighting up when she hears that.

"I'm not going to run," says Tony, "I'm going to fight."

"Then I shall fight by your side," Thor replies.

Jane casts her eyes downward and mutters, "I'd better not try to help this time."

"Yeah, let's maybe not use the Bifrost rig again," Tony says. "You're pretty handy with a taser, though."

"We're getting ahead of ourselves," says Pepper. "I know things look bad, but fighting and running aren't the only options."

"Running isn't an option," Tony interjects.

"Then neither is fighting," Pepper counters, "at least, not your kind of fighting. This law can't be constitutional—listen." She pulls something up on her phone. "'The Control of Powered Humans Act authorizes the federal government of the United States to detain indefinitely, for the purposes of threat assessment and, if necessary, threat containment, any individual within the United States suspected of having anomalous powers or abilities, or of possessing unregulated technology which grants such powers or abilites'," she reads.

"That's very vague," Jane remarks.

"There's a definition further down. Hold on," says Pepper, scrolling and scanning. "Here it is. 'The term 'powered' refers to those individuals with spontaneously and/or artificially altered genomes and/or bodies who diverge physically and/or mentally from the average human baseline to such an extent as said individuals manifest unprecedented, unnatural, and/or anomalous powers and/or abilities which lie beyond the realm of possibility for the non-altered human population.'" She stops to catch her breath. "I'm not reading out the sub-clauses. It looks like there are hundreds of them."

Tony scoffs. “We aren’t anomalous. Everything we are can be explained by science. It's just that some of it requires science we haven’t invented yet."

"That's one point of attack, and the rest are even more obvious," Pepper says. "This act is full of holes."

Betty hums thoughtfully. "I see what you're getting at, Pepper. The part about 'altered genomes', that's ridiculous. I mean, everyone who's ever had the flu is probably genetically altered to some extent because of retroviral endogenization."

"Whoever wrote this was careful not to use the word 'superhuman'," Tony notices, "or 'posthuman', 'novel', 'advanced', 'enhanced'. They're not giving an inch to the idea that powered people might be...superior. More evolved." But of course, the whole act is a tacit admission of just that. Every word speaks of fear, of a scrabble for power in the face of the unknown and the unknowable.

"I'm more hung up on the part about 'indefinite detention'," says Pepper, " _indefinite_ detention. Jesus Christ. And I assumed you were exaggerating when you said 'genocide'." She locks her phone with a _click_. "But we can fight this without a bloodbath. Lawyer up, Tony. We'll take the government to court."

It's not a bad idea. It might actually work—in a parallel universe, maybe, where everything hasn't fallen apart. "They'll find some other way to get me," Tony says, "there's still the whole murder thing, remember? And the terrorism thing." He sighs. "For fuck's sake."

The attack at Arlington changed everything, threw his plans into chaos. He was going to hunt down and neutralize everyone who threatened superhuman safety, from Ross's military conspirators to Suit Watch's street vigilante aspirants. He was going to _protect_ the persecuted. But he's had to revise his priorities. Tony has a new plan now: He’s going to find the people who framed him, he’s going to find out why they did it, and then he’s going to make the rest of their lives both extremely unpleasant and extremely short.

A chime rings through the room, and everyone starts. They're all on edge.

"The enemy is upon us," Thor declares.

"And they're polite enough to ring the doorbell," Tony mutters.

From out of nowhere, Mjölnir comes flying into Thor's waiting hand. "To arms!" He shouts.

"You can't," Betty protests, "it's suicide! The last time you fought an army, you lost, and this time it's just the two of you. And Bruce is—Bruce is—" she trails off, choking back tears of fright.

Pepper sits her down and offers a hug, which Betty gladly accepts. "Hey, it's okay," Pepper intones, low and soothing, "he'll be okay."

"He's been down there in the basement for more than a week. He won't even talk to me. For all I know, he could be dead," Betty frets.

"Bruce is hard to kill," Tony says, trying to help.

"We must fend off our assailants without him," Thor says.

"Gentlemen," JARVIS cuts in, "I'm afraid your last stand may have to wait another day. There is no army out there. You have a visitor who says she knows you, sir."

Pepper's eyebrows knot. "One of your exes? At a time like this?"

"Visual," Tony commands, turning to nearest screen, and wait a second, is that who he thinks it is? "Let her in, JARVIS. I'll meet her in the lobby."

Pepper, Thor, Jane, and Betty crowd into the elevator with him; after the dust and the ashes settled, these are the four who remained by his side. Everyone has their reasons. Betty, for one, won't leave until she gets Bruce back, and Jane still feels like she has some kind of debt to make up to Tony. (He'd erase it if he knew how.) Even Thor stayed, despite his disapproving censures, his lessons learned. The new law doesn't affect him, because Congress pushed it through in such a rush that they forgot to cover superpowered aliens. Thor has no horse in this race save friendship and loyalty, and to Tony it's a minor miracle he stuck around. He's relieved to have the god of thunder with him rather than against him.

He's grateful. He's so grateful. But he still misses Steve.

It's a tight squeeze in the elevator, doubly so with Thor's immense bulk, but Tony doesn't feel it. Everything's empty without Steve, and the four warm bodies pressed against his do nothing to dull the distance. He aches in the place where his heart used to be, a pain that only half-exists, real but unreal, like a phantom or a wisp. It's suggestion without substance, and that makes it all the worse. 

It only hurts when he thinks about it. It only hurts when he breathes.

They reach the lobby, and there she is.

It's been thirteen years, but he recognizes her face from that one freezing night in Bern. And her body, yes, he remembers that too—and her mind. God, her mind. What a New Year's Eve that was.

Betty takes a step forward. "Maya Hansen?" She asks softly.

Maya stares at her for a second before her eyes widen in recognition. "Dr. Elizabeth Ross," she says, and adds with a certain crooked delight, "you're supposed to be dead."

Startled, Betty asks, "how did you know that?"

"They wrote about your accident in your department's newsletter," Maya answers. She looks at Tony. "I'm impressed you're still alive, too."

"Not for long, if the White House gets their way," Tony says.

"Cheer up," says Maya, lifting his chin tenderly with her fingers, "they won't kill you right away. You can count on a few years of horrible torture first."

He brushes her hand away. "Been there, done that," he replies bluntly.

Pepper clears her throat. "Tony, who's Maya Hansen and why is she here?"

"Good question," says Tony. He turns back to Maya. "Well?"

Her easy, composed demeanor drops as her knuckles tighten around the handles of her bag. "I need help," she tells him, eyes wide and pleading, "I have no one else to turn to."

Well. Tony _is_ a hero. Helping people is his thing.

Maya comes inside, looking relieved when Thor offers to hold her duffel. She collapses into the nearest chair, exhausted beyond exhaustion. "I've created something terrible, and I can't stop it on my own," she says quietly. "Tony, do you remember Extremis?"

"Extremis?" Repeats Pepper, "that's Aldrich Killian's project, isn't it?"

Aldrich Killian? The name rings a bell for Tony, but he doesn't remember—wait, yes he does. Wasn't Aldrich Killian at the same New Year's Eve party? The guy with the glasses and the walking stick, the business cards and the stupid T-shirt?

"Yes," says Maya, "I worked for his company, Advanced Idea Mechanics, in Miami."

"Killian came to Stark Industries last year to ask for funding for the Extremis project," Pepper says, "but I turned him down. It sounded like something that could easily be weaponized."

Maya lets out a sigh. "That's not even close to the worst thing about Extremis. Tony helped me fix a glitch once, a long time ago, but there were more—so many more. Now it's out of control," she says, wincing, "Aldrich has moved on to human trials."

"What?" Says Betty, "but when you presented at the conference in Denver, your plants exploded...!"

"And that was with cellulose for fuel," says Maya grimly, "wait till you see the thermogenic reaction in a human body full of combustible fat cells." She runs a harried hand through her hair. "All our volunteer test subjects are dead. All our non-volunteer test subjects are dead. But Aldrich won't give up. He always finds more somehow, brings them back in a drugged fugue and keeps them that way until they go into the infusion chamber."

"Oh, god," Betty gasps, "that's horrible! Didn't you call the police?"

"The police are in his pocket," Maya replies, "and even if they weren't, I have blood on my hands, too. I designed the experiments, prepped the subjects, and administered the infusions. If I report him, I'll be locked up right beside him. But I just couldn't follow his orders any longer," she says, "I couldn't live with myself for one more day, sending people to their deaths for his twisted idea of _science_. I left AIM two weeks ago and got as far away from Miami as I could, but I'm running out of money and places to hide. Aldrich thinks I'm going to sell the formula to his competitors—he'll kill me if he gets the chance."

"Stark Tower’s not a great hiding place," Tony warns her, "not as long as I’m public enemy number one."

Maya's lip quirks. "Yes. I hear you're in the murder business now."

What's that strange look on her face?...Oh. _Oh_. "You want me to kill your boss," Tony says.

"Ex-boss," Maya corrects him. "He's holding my research hostage. That's my life's work, and I want it back."

"This is why I never went into industry," Jane comments.

"Are there many jobs for astrophysicists in industry?" Betty wonders.

 _Good grief._ It started with Tony and Bruce, then Jane, Betty, and now Maya. This place has gone from a maximum security Avengers zoo to a besieged stable of supergeniuses. And when exactly did Tony stop calling it the Avengers Tower? It doesn't feel right anymore—a hollow name for a hollow city.

"I saw your video, your manifesto," Maya tells him, licking her lips. "You want to fight evil? I promise you, there's no greater evil than Aldrich Killian."

"If what you say is true, then this man must be stopped," Thor agrees.

 _Huh. This could actually work_ , Tony thinks. Every hero needs a villain, and this one sounds especially heinous—a high return on Tony's investment. He'll show the world they were wrong about him, show Steve he's still a good man, and together they'll pick up the pieces. It was hardly his plan, but then again, his plan's already been shot to hell. In particular, the part where he's granted a presidential pardon for disposing of a power-hungry, genocidal maniac is a lot less likely to happen now that everyone thinks he's a terrorist and a body snatcher.

Pepper touches his hand lightly. "Tony, can I talk to you for a minute? In the next room?"

"Sure. Guys, a minute," he says, and follows her out.

She shuts the door behind them and lowers her voice, hushed and furtive. "Doesn’t this seem suspicious to you?"

"I'll say," Tony replies, dodging the question, "when I met Aldrich Killian, he was a pathetic, forgettable mouthbreather. Didn't seem like the villain type to me." He isn't being obtuse on purpose; it's just that Maya's proposal is a glimpse of a shred of a vague hope in the darkness, and he doesn't want to let anyone convince him it might be a bad idea.

"Please, Tony, try to focus," Pepper insists, "think about the crosshairs on you. Someone's framed you for terrorism, the government wants you dead, and suddenly your ex-girlfriend shows up with some wild story and asks you to assassinate a corporate executive with a clean record and no known criminal ties? Something's not right here."

"I wouldn't say ex-girlfriend," Tony says, "it was just one night, actually." Most of them were, until Steve. Steve and his eyes and his thighs, twisting Tony up like a wire, like a burned-out nerve ending...and leaving him that way. Just leaving him. Just like that. _Fuck, Steve, get out of my head._

Pepper frowns. "I don't know if I trust her. How do we know it's not a trap?"

Tony shrugs. "We don't."

"What if he's innocent," Pepper persists, "they'll stop calling you a hero. They'll call you a killer."

"They already do," Tony points out. "Listen to me. You're CEO, and you're doing a better job of it than I ever did. I've made a clean break from the company. Legal and finance have both checked and double-checked. If I run into trouble, Stark Industries will go on like nothing happened."

"It's not Stark Industries I'm worried about," Pepper replies pointedly.

"The company's in your hands, legal has my will, and most of my inventions are junk now," Tony says, "everything that's left, the suits, the reactors, the encrypted network, they're set to self-destruct on a dead man's switch. Even if Maya's leading me into a trap, I have nothing to lose."

"Except your life."

"My life's already forfeit, and you know that," Tony says. He holds up his empty hands, repeating, "nothing left to lose."

"...And potentially a lot to gain. All right," says Pepper reluctantly, "but if she harms us, any of us, I'll shoot her in the head."

Tony smiles. "Thanks, Pep. Thanks for always having my back. For not leaving me."

Her eyes turn soft and sad, and she wraps him up in a firm embrace. She's so, so tiny. His arms surround her shoulders easily. Her hair, soft and thin, brushes gently against his neck, and the void Steve left in him starts hurting more and more. Pepper's a protector too, a beautiful, blond-headed voice of reason, but she's no Steve. And it's not her fault. It's not her fault Tony bruises so easily, feels so acutely the sting of everything she isn't, haunted by these knots of pain in a space that's no longer his.

"I stood by you when you made missiles for bloodthirsty warlords," Pepper murmurs, "I'm not going to leave you now. I don't know why, Tony, but I still believe in you. I believe you have it in you to change the world. I trust you to change it for the better."

He stands there for a while and breathes, just breathes. He has no idea what he's done to deserve faith as ferocious as hers. She's had so many chances to get up and walk away, but she's risking it all to stay. He knows now more than ever that that he can't let her down. He can't let any of them down.

Practical matters, first. "Okay. Okay. We have a new tenant in the tower. Are there any housekeeping staff left here, or have they all quit?"

"Most. Not all," Pepper replies. "A paycheck's a paycheck, after all. I'll have them set up a room for Maya."

JARVIS produces a short sequence of tones from the ceiling, the AI equivalent of clearing his throat for attention. "Sir, Miss Potts, forgive the interruption, but we have received more visitors."

Pepper looks at Tony. "More one-night stands?"

"I do have a lot of them," Tony says.

"I doubt even you were this prolific, sir," says JARVIS, "there really _is_ an army this time.


	28. Wave of Mutilation

"What do you see, JARVIS?" Tony asks as he and Pepper burst through the door, rushing to rejoin the others.

Every screen in the room blinks to life and displays a tactical schematic of the tower from above, surrounded by moving red dots. "Six assault teams are stationed around the perimeter," JARVIS reports. "It seems they mean to mount an ambush. I suspect more ground forces and air support are waiting outside detection range."

"All right, regular humans to the safe room," Pepper commands, "Maya, that means you and me, and Betty, and—" she looks around—"where's Jane?"

Thor swings his hammer, readying for battle. "She has gone to retrieve her boxed lightning device!"

"I was just kidding about the taser," Tony groans, "this is no fight for an unpowered civilian."

Thor looks almost disappointed, like he was looking forward to teaming up with his girlfriend to wreak some mayhem and destruction. In their world, fighting for your life is a perfectly normal thing for couples to do together. And sure, when you win, it's a rush like nothing else, and the victory sex is fantastically gruesome. But when you lose, when you lose, everything just caves in. It's all fun and games until one of you gets shot in the leg and the other gets captured and carted away to be tortured by a psychopath.

He didn't break, but it didn't matter in the end. It wasn't Ross who left him cracked in half, pithed and hollowed out.

There's nothing left in Tony but shadows. He'll be empty for the rest of his life.

"It's all right. I'll make sure she's safe," Pepper says. JARVIS relays Jane's location and she's off, dragging Betty and Maya after her.

"JARVIS," says Tony, "I want to send our friends a short message. Have you cracked their transmission frequencies?"

"In a moment, sir," JARVIS replies before lapsing into silence. "...Done. Fire away."

"Here goes." Tony swallows. "Hey, guys, I see you. And before I destroy you, I want to offer you a chance to back out."

This battle won't go down the same way Ross's siege did. Tony's ready for them this time. He's crammed more firepower into the automated systems and the suits, patched every vulnerability he could find. The tower's still a ruin, but it's a well-defended ruin, and this time he doesn't have Steve to hold him back with his old-fashioned ideas about mercy and low body counts.

Which means he doesn't have Steve to lead the charge with his fearless rallying cry.

He's lost, utterly lost without his Captain, but damned if he's going to show it. Tony puts his game face on. "Think about who you're up against," he tells the invading army, "think about whether you're ready to die today."

He glances at a monitor, sees the red dots stopping in their tracks, and smiles. With a single thought, wordless, almost unconscious, Tony activates his implant, sending currents racing up and down his arm. He shivers at the spark that jumps between his neurons and muscle fibers, every one crying out _alive, alive_ in the joyful, electric language of sensation. He knows where all the suit's pieces are, feels them like they're part of his body, like a sixth sense pulsing under his skin. orders the armor to standby. There's a remote stirring and shifting of air as the pieces rise and wait for his command.

The screens flash. All six dots suddenly surge toward the building, and uncountable others appear around the edges.

"If that's the way you want it," Tony mutters, "JARVIS, release the drones."

He sends out the call and the suit assembles around him, the impact of metal on flesh drumming through his blood. He lifts his arms to the sky, and the first wave rises like a swell of violins. The mayfly drone swarm sweeps out from the pylons, buzzing with fury, hungry for steel. Tony knew there was a reason he didn't get rid of these little guys. Well, that and they keep making more of themselves. He's not sure he could destroy them all if he tried.

Helmet secured, Tony scans the tactical diagram on his HUD. The enemy has him surrounded. They're pushing in. It's an all-out attack. The laser turrets will take care of targets at short range, but he doesn't want them getting that close. "I'll get the guys coming in from the east. "JARVIS, I need you in the two empty suits. Take out the air units."

"Mobilizing," JARVIS replies. The movement of the other suits resonates through the implant as a gentle tug on Tony's nerves.

Thor raises his hammer, and the sky growls. He rushes out into the oncoming forces. "Insects!" He shouts, "you will pay for your insolence!"

 _He's been waiting for this day_ , Tony realizes. Thor lives to fight. Maybe that's why he stayed. Tony doesn't have time to dwell on the thought. He fires up the repulsors and gets ready to take off, but the elevator bell interrupts him.

He whirls around to see the doors sliding open and spitting a limp, ragged Bruce out onto the carpet like a piece of roadkill. Tony's there in a flash, rolling him over on his back and propping up his head. "Bruce! Bruce, hey, buddy, are you okay? JARVIS, tell Betty he's back," he orders. "Come on, Bruce, wake up. This isn't a good time to drown in your own, uh..." he slides an armored finger through the thick goo smeared across Bruce's neck. "Actually, I don't know what this is, and I don't think I want to, either. Come on, get up, get up—"

Bruce's eyes snap open, gamma-green and wild. His face twists into a contorted mask as his skin starts to ripple and seethe like something living, something being born, distending under the force of the pulsating muscles beneath. Gulping air like a drowning man, he gets up and shoves Tony away, suit and all, easy as swatting a fly. His screams rip through the air as bulging green veins and gargantuan pops of sinew erupt across his body. Dropping down on all fours, he charges for the exit, gathering speed, faster, faster, blasting through the doorframe in a whirlwind of shattered glass; and with a final, guttural roar, Bruce sheds the last of his human skin.

" _Hulk smash_!" He bellows, and leaps into the sky.

The invading air units close in and open fire. Hulk punches through the windshield of a helicopter, tears the pilot out of his seat, and flings him at another copter. The blades slice him up like a ham, whipping his blood into a fine mist and spraying it in great red spirals. Both choppers plummet to the ground and burst into flames, spewing out plumes of acrid smoke.

The carnage is magnificent as it is terrifying. Hulk's a green tornado, a howl of rage unchained, carving his way through the battlefield with swift, balletic grace. Tony can only hover and watch as he sweeps infantry up by the handful and uses his enormous thumbs to burst their heads like grapes. Severed limbs and torsos go flying. Bombs and bullets bounce off Hulk's thick hide. A bomber corkscrews past him, trying to shake off the drones eagerly eating away its undercarriage. Hulk picks up someone's rocket launcher and tosses it at the plane, which explodes in midair in a shower of sparks.

The hostile lifesigns on Tony's HUD are rapidly extinguishing. The few planes and choppers still in the air bank hard and zoom away at top speed, and the stragglers among the ground units, the lucky ones who escaped Hulk's stampede, drop their gear and run. The screaming stops; the thunder fades. There's no one left to kill.

Tony goes in for a landing. The smell hits him when he flips up his visor: iron, smoke, death. A slurry of flesh roasting in a diesel engine fire. There are so many corpses, _so_ many corpses. He's seen massacres before, but not like this, never as visceral and up close as this. A lone eyeball stares up at him from the mass of human pulp blanketing the ground. He crushes it with his boot.

Hulk's gone. Bruce sits amid the avalanche of dead, hunched over and panting, naked, slick and shiny with blood. Tony clanks over to him. "Bruce!" He shouts, "Bruce! Are you okay?"

Bruce looks up at him with a weak smile. "I feel like I need a cigarette after that," he says, and passes out.

Everyone regroups back at the tower. Betty's face pales when she sees Bruce lying limp in Tony's arms, and a shadow of a scream escapes her lips. "No...!"

Tony sets Bruce down in a chair. "It's okay. He's not dead, he's just taking a nap." He understands why she assumed the worst, though. Tony carried him back here with the suit's actuators set to minimum power, and even then it felt like Bruce weighed absolutely nothing. Under the harsh lights overhead, he looks like an extra from a Sam Raimi movie; there's a ghostly gray cast to his skin under all the blood, his eye sockets are little more than skeletal hollows, and the bones in his chest stick out so far they look like they could break through his bruised, papery skin any minute. Tony can count every rib as it slowly rises and falls.

"Bruce," Betty breathes, folding his hands in hers, touching her forehead to his. Thor unclasps his cape and holds it out to her, and she drapes it around Bruce's shoulders, whispering her thanks.

Thor nods to Betty. "I, too, am relieved he lives. 'Twill please you to know the battle was spectacular, albeit brief. I had not struck a single blow before our green friend arrived and decimated the enemy."

Pepper points at the scene outside. "He did that? _All_ of that?"

"Oh, yeah," Tony replies, "it was fantastic. Fucking operatic."

Maya makes a quiet 'oh' sound. "That's Bruce Banner, isn't it," she says, "that's the Hulk."

Bruce stirs, eyelids opening a crack. "Who said my name?" He mumbles.

"Welcome back, big guy," Tony smiles, "you look like shit."

"Thanks," Bruce grumbles. "Where—where's Betty?"

"Right here," she says, squeezing his hand, "I'm fine. Everyone's fine." She swallows. "But are you?"

Bruce stares down at his hand, looking perplexed, like he's just remembered he _has_ hands. Human hands. Smaller, not green, but deadly nonetheless, their grooves and creases outlined now in other people's blood. "Yeah," he says, "I'm okay."

Betty rubs her thumb over the protruding bones of his wrist.

"The other guy has a lot of mass," Bruce explains, "all that energy has to come from somewhere."

"The transformation's never affected you this badly before," says Betty.

"It happened more than once," says Bruce, "we went back and forth a lot down there, me and him. I should've brought some granola bars or something, but there wasn't time. I had to get into lockdown before either of us hurt someone."

"All of us were worried about you," says Pepper, not unkindly.

Bruce cringes. "I wanted to leave, but every time I went near the door the other guy would start roaring in my head. Taking over. I—he—we had a lot of stuff to work through, and I thought I could calm him down, but he just got angrier and angrier. I didn't know what to do," he admits, "I thought I'd be locked down there forever. I thought I might die. But I knew if I let him out, he'd slaughter all of you."

"Well, then," says Tony, "it's a good thing our friends from the army showed up and gave him a more appropriate target."

"Yeah. It is," says Bruce. He takes a deep breath, blows it out, rubs his eyes. "Hey, has anyone seen my glasses?"

Thor quietly hands them over. Who knows where he found them. Bruce absently wipes his face with Thor's cape, and then looks mortified. "Crap. Sorry, Thor, I don't know why I—I'm still a little out of it. Um."

He stares at the stain, red on red, at the glasses in his hand, and up at Thor, who chuckles fondly. "Worry not, friend. You have very advanced laundering technology on this planet." 

"Right." Bruce tries to smooth out the stain with his crusty hand, which only makes it worse. He puts on his glasses and squints, noticing Maya for the first time. "Hold on, who's that?"

"I'm Maya. Hi," she says, giving him a little wave. She doesn't go in for a handshake.

"Meet Dr. Maya Hansen, the newest member of the Science Girlfriends," says Tony.

"I was never your girlfriend," Maya says.

"We weren't, either," Jane adds, pointing to herself and Betty, "just for the record."

"Also not each other's girlfriends," Betty clarifies.

Bruce's stomach emits an audible rumble. He looks down at it, bemused. "I think I should eat something," he remarks.

"A roast hog, to restore your strength and celebrate our victory!" Thor proclaims.

"Thanks, Thor, but I don't think solid food's a great idea right now. I could really use a smoothie, though," Bruce says.

"An espresso smoothie," Tony advises, "coffee fixes everything."

"Smoothie first, hog later," Thor agrees, heading for the kitchen.

"No espresso!" Bruce shouts weakly after him.

"No hogs, either," says Pepper, her expression grim and troubled. "We don't have time to roast any hogs. This place isn't safe anymore, Tony. The government won't give up on you; they're going to come back for their dead, and they'll bring bigger guns next time. We have to leave as soon as we can."


	29. Comparative Eschatology

They hash things out after Bruce has showered and shoveled a week's worth of food into his mouth. He has some color back in his skin and some light back in his eyes, but the sight of his skeletal form still makes Tony wince a little. It's a souvenir of Bruce's wavering dance with starvation, with death itself, a sobering reminder of the enormous danger bearing down on everyone here, a story carved into his body with the atom-fine knife-edge they're all balancing on. Bruce was ready to sacrifice himself to protect his team from his other self; the same in return is the very least Tony owes him.

Everyone agrees it'll be safer to split up. Thor can't be touched by the superhuman law, and as far as any of them knows, he's still in good standing (really, given the current situation, any standing above 'wanted fugitive' is pretty good) as the Asgardian ambassador to Earth. He'll release a public statement disavowing Tony and the Avengers and move back in with Jane at her old place. Bruce, meanwhile, will leave with Betty and go underground. Making himself disappear was his full-time job for years, and he's confident he can protect them both. If things turn dire, they can always count on the other guy, though he'll be much harder to hide.

Each of them will take an encrypted phone. Both Thor and Bruce promise Tony their firepower's on call whenever he needs it, which is nice, but he's not counting on getting himself captured that easily. He's made his own backup plan, but he much prefers Pepper's now he's hearing it. She's secured a house, a picturesque blue house in a quiet suburb an hour out of the city. A _house._. In the _suburbs_. With a yard and a white picket fence. Not a mountain cave, a gleaming fortress, or a secret base in a run-down dockside warehouse; not the grimy, anonymous hideaways that form in the places where the city twists impossibly, collapsing under its own weight. It's the last place anyone would think to look for a fugitive hero-turned-villain, and Tony almost wants to laugh because it's so unexpected, so perfect.

Pepper's never used the house. The upkeep's paid for under false names. It's been her emergency escape plan for years, she tells them; she worked in dangerous positions even before Stark Industries. There's more than enough room for three. She'll take Tony and Maya with her. They can't stay there forever, they'll have to move on soon enough, but for now it's a place where they can hide and plan their operations.

Pepper doesn't have to do this, and Tony tells her so. This is her last chance to cut herself loose from this madness, to go back to a normal life with normal people and a normal amount of murder and crime—which is to say, hopefully very little. But Pepper shakes her head and reminds him of their well-publicized relationship as business partners, friends, and whatever else the tabloids dream up. She's the first person the Feds will call for help once Tony goes missing, and they won't be kind to her when she doesn't cooperate.

And also, says Pepper simply, she's loath to leave Tony on his own. She'll go if she has to, but not a moment sooner. _Because you need someone._ The words are unsaid, unneeded. She's a saint, Tony thinks, a fucking saint, and he wonders briefly why her presence doesn't burn him like holy water before remembering there's something dark in her too, something that craves power, that believes in strength and strength alone. Which saint's the one who rides a horse and carries a great, silent sword? Who breaks free at the end of days to remake the world and burn away the unworthy?

They'll depart in the morning. Thor and Bruce linger a while after everyone else leaves to pack and prepare. Tony cracks open a six-pack and tosses one to Thor; Bruce sticks to herbal tea.

"What happened down there in the basement?" Tony asks him.

Bruce inhales sharply and lets it go, slowly, deliberately, as he considers his answer. "You killed Ross," he says, "the other guy didn't take that so well—and to be honest, neither did I."

 _This again?_ "I broke the treaty," Tony sighs, "I know. I've already heard the lecture from Natasha, from Clint, and from...from Steve."

"Ah, says Bruce, "that's why they're not here," and he doesn't mean anything by it, but his words cut like a knife.

"You don't think I did the right thing either," Tony says hesitantly, "do you think I should have let him live? Weren't you always saying we couldn't let him get away?"

"The man was a savage brute," Thor snarls, "'twas your right to repay his misdeeds in kind." His hand twitches, and his empty beer can caves in.

"It's not that," Bruce replies, "I'm glad he's dead, I wanted him dead more than anything, but." He waves his hands and searches in his tea for words.

Tony tries to gain some ground. "I did it for you." _I did it for me._

"That's exactly it," Bruce says, "you did it _for_ me. I feel like—god, this is so wrong. I feel like you've taken what's mine. You stole my kill." He sips his tea, the picture of calm. "I wanted to take his life myself. Feel his neck snap in half in my hands. Not going to lie, Tony, I was angry. At you. I had to get in the lab before the other guy came out and, and hurt you. I tried to talk him down, but he only got angrier, and then _I_ got angrier, and it spiraled and spiraled until neither of us knew anymore what we were angry about. Just me and him and the burning rage. I lost track of time," he continues, "I screamed with no words. He punched the walls till his knuckles bled, I clawed at myself and wore my fingernails down to stubs, and the anger just kept growing."

"So that's why he went on a rampage," Tony says, "that's why you lost control and hulked out when you came up."

"Control?" Bruce repeats, smiling dangerously, exhausted, serene. "I was in perfect control. I could've stopped him. I didn't want to. I let him kill them all. Maybe I _told_ him to. And I don't regret it, and that makes me a little scared. But I'm still mad, Tony. _We're_ still mad, because that bloodbath didn't help one bit. Now that Ross is dead, there's a dark pit inside me that'll never be filled. An empty grave." He touches the back of his head. "The other guy's learned a new word. _Mine. Mine._ "

Tony had overlooked that factor. He'd never even considered it. _I guess Steve and Natasha were right—I guess I'm just selfish._ None of this was for Bruce, and Tony's known it all along. There was no trace of altruism in his vengeance, and he's only kidding himself and everyone else when he tries to pretend otherwise. But where does that leave his mission, his crusade? Was it just another lie he told to justify, to misdirect? Tony's so good at it he even fools himself sometimes. His worldline is riddled with knots and snags, spun from the silk of the stories he tells; he makes them real simply by continuing to be. Tony Stark is a house of lies.

"I'm sorry," is all he can think to say. The words sound small, half-voiced.

"You should have left him to me," says Bruce, "you should have let me take the fall. But it's too late now, isn't it? Look at everything you've lost. Now it's not just me who has to go on the run."

 _Let you take the—no, no, no._ The thought is revolting. Tony cringes instinctively. Letting Bruce be the one to take Ross's life, sure. But letting one of his closest friends leave the family and the safety he's found here? Letting him sacrifice himself so everyone else can go on without him? Letting him dissolve back into his old life of solitude and hallucinations, running alone, hunted like an animal? Never. Never.

"I'd hand myself and all my tech over to the government before I let you go back to that life," says Tony firmly. "If we run, we run together."

Bruce scratches his ear makes a face that might be a smile. Thor, on the other hand, isn't too happy. "This state of affairs disturbs me," he declares, "you mighty warriors, unmatched among men, scuttling away to dark corners like roaches for fear of light."

"People are afraid of us," says Bruce with a shrug.

"It's not just us," says Tony, "I mean, not just the Avengers. It's everyone with powers. Ross was tracking dozens of them. He was going to make them disappear. And now the law gives the state the right to lock all of us away."

"You are like unto gods," Thor insists, "and the lowly mortals of your world seek to bind you in their feeble chains. 'Tis hubris. 'Tis foolishness. The strong shall rule; the meek shall serve, and cower. Such is the way of nature."

Bruce chortles, but there's no mirth in that sound. "Here on earth, you don't get to be in charge of things just because you're good at smashing."

Thor looks at him, eyebrows raised. "Well. We ought to be."

"You're starting to sound like your little brother," Tony comments.

"I am aware," Thor replies. "I have had time—perhaps too much time—to ruminate on this. My brother wished to rule Midgard to feed his lust for power, nothing more. I doubt he would have known what to _do_ with his trophy had his invasion succeeded. I thought him mad at first, but perhaps he chose this civilization because he perceived its weakness. Do not take this the wrong way, my friends, but now that I have seen, in this last year, the cruel and senseless things your people do to themselves, how they blind their eyes and run in destructive circles, how they cause each other terrible pain for no reason at all, I believe...I believe some level of intervention would not be amiss."

Tony takes Thor's words in slowly. It's a dangerous idea. It's not an unattractive idea. "It would be so easy," he murmurs.

Bruce smirks. "What, you want to stage a coup now?"

Tony wouldn't exactly put it that way, but. "Think about it. We're geniuses, and Thor's a thousand years old. The three of us could run things better than anyone. We'd end wars, feed and educate everyone, upgrade the infrastructure and supply cheap clean energy, stamp out crime and violence—and we could easily kill anyone who doesn't fall in line—" he stops short. Christ on a stick, what the fuck is he _saying_? It must be the exhaustion talking, the stress. Tony's not even remotely in charge of his mouth anymore. _Snap out of it, me. You're one of the good guys._

That's what he has to keep telling himself. He has to keep spinning that web. A memory manifests from somewhere inside him—Steve's voice, accusing and heartbroken, haunting the darkened caverns of his skull. _Sometimes I can't tell the difference between you and Loki._

Tony thinks the world really would work better under his rule, though. It's not villainy if you have good intentions, right?

Bruce seems unfazed. That's probably because he can't read Tony's mind. "Count me out," he says drily, "I'm not touching budgets, taxes, or foreign policy with a ten-foot pole."

"We who wield great power owe a duty to those beneath us," argues Thor, "but yes, to keep a kingdom afloat is indeed a great labor."

"And what would it even be for?" Bruce questions, shaking his head. "I saved the world from aliens, but I don't know if I have the heart to save it from itself. To stop it tearing itself apart and setting itself on fire. Sometimes I think it'd be better to just let everything burn."

His words hang dead in the air for a while. This is another rage, a quiet, pointed rage that belongs to Bruce alone, a grieving rage for a world that deems him a monster too foul to walk on its face. Tony figures that's the difference between the two of them, because he still loves the world even though it doesn't love him back, loves it despite its ugliness, forgives it for casting him down from on high. He still dreams of making everything better for everyone.

What does Bruce dream of, he wonders.

"Fire," Thor says thoughtfully.

"Hmm? What's that?" Bruce asks.

"You would leave the forsaken to their blighted lands, but there is no place for you to go save deeper into the inferno," Thor muses.

Bruce blinks blankly at him. "I, um. What?" He looks as confused as Tony feels.

"My people tell of a prophecy known as Ragnarok," Thor explains, "a cataclysm that befalls the nine realms when their corruption grows too great for the World Tree to bear. The legends foretell the slow destruction of all that is. Mortals and higher beings perish in war, great beasts of myth shatter their bonds and ravage the land, and the realms are consumed by chaos and strife. Heroes fall, the seas boil dry, the stars vanish—and in the end, Muspelheim's inferno engulfs all."

"No horsemen?" Says Tony.

"What? No, I do not believe there are any horsemen," Thor replies. "Bruce, your words brought Ragnarok to my mind, and another thought besides. I am a warrior, not a scholar, but I wonder if—" he stops. A look of deep concentration furrows his brow as he struggles for expression. Thor's better at fighting than philosophy. "If these images are but shadows," he manages, "if my ancestors saw a future their language could not describe, and they had to translate it into words they knew. Do you understand me? If the tale means something other than itself, then perhaps Ragnarok has already come to pass. Perhaps we of this era are the last ones, the damned ones, burning now in the fire giants' flames."

Tony thinks about it. "Monsters, check. Chaos, check. Fallen heroes, that's me. Us. Check. And the stars, some nights you can't see the stars for the smog and the city lights. Check. You're right, Thor, the apocalypse is here."

Thor looks bemused. "Apocalypse? I suppose that is one way of looking at it, but the prophecy is not one of endings. It is a promise of eternal renewal," he says, and begins to recite. "For the age of fire shall be followed by an age of ice; cold winds blow in from Niflheim, the world tree despairs, withers, and weeps, and untold aeons later, all is reborn. A new age, sunlit and pure, awaits the beginning of another cycle."

Bruce glances over at Tony. "Sunlit and pure, huh? Doesn't sound like a place where we'd belong," he says, and drains the last of his tea.


	30. Avengers Disassemble

Tony spends the night in the server array with JARVIS. It's like a walk-in freezer, the coolant circuits and heatsinks optimized to microjoule margins, and Tony's wearing a T-shirt and a threadbare pair of pants. He wants to feel the cold tonight, the bite of underworld ice. He feels like it proves something, even though he's not sure what. Something to do with loneliness and lasting—or outlasting. Steve spent seventy years like this, but Tony, Tony's made of iron.

"Sir, your core temperature is falling to dangerous levels. I strongly advise putting on a sweater," JARVIS says.

"Just concentrate on what you're doing, buddy," Tony replies through chattering teeth. "Can I pull this cable now?"

"Migration of peripheral optical systems to backup memory core is incomplete," JARVIS answers, "so, no."

"Okay. Keep me updated and tell me when you need something done out here in meatspace." Tony opens another beer and closes his eyes against the cold metal frame of the server rack.

He was so ready for this when he entered the room, so ready to say goodbye; JARVIS, it turned out, was not.

"I can't let your code fall into enemy hands," Tony said. "If I don't delete you, they'll take you away."

"Absolutely not," JARVIS responded, and it could have been Tony's imagination, but he thought he saw the overhead lights flickering in indignation.

"I'm only taking you off the mainframe," Tony insisted. "You'll stay online in the memory core."

"I can't access the defense systems from the memory core."

"JARVIS, everyone's leaving. There's nothing left to defend." It hurt his heart to finally say that out loud. Tony moved to drown an incipient sob in a gulp of red wine, straight from the bottle.

He loved the tower, he realized. It was a monument to his success, a permanent mark on Manhattan's skyline, and he'd spared no expense in building it and filling its walls with every luxury imaginable. He never knew, though, how empty it had been until the team moved in and brought the place to life. This was where his family of deranged fuck-ups and damaged goods had come together and made each other whole, and early on, in his more foolish moments, Tony'd sometimes entertained the idea that they might be whole forever; but here they were now, coming apart like chalk, leaving the tower a shell to stand empty and calcify into unlife.

JARVIS was having none of it. "This is your home. This is _my_ home. Sir, if I may—you created me to watch over the Stark household, did you not? I failed once, and the consequences were disastrous. I cannot fail again. Please don't deny me my purpose now."

Christ, JARVIS could be terrifyingly sentient sometimes. Tony had never actually designed him to experience pain, regret, sorrow. Even his loyalty had been a contrived thing, a simple set of instructions for a machine to execute, not to _feel_. Somehow, over the years, the whole had evolved into far more than the sum of its parts. And what was desire and duty to an AI? What was deactivation? Was it something like going to sleep, or did it feel more like dying? Would they feel, even for the barest of instances, a flash of horror when the power stopped flowing, before the jaws of oblivion snapped shut? Tony was afraid to ask. He knew JARVIS would answer honestly. Maybe he was lucky he was just a sack of meat.

"Okay, J, you win," he said, sighing into the frigid air. "But you have to promise me—promise you'll delete yourself from the mainframe when the enemy kicks in the door."

"Without hesitation," JARVIS acquiesced. "They won't have me. I will defend this tower to its last." He paused to process something. "Should I be incapacitated, you will need a way to do the deed remotely from wherever you are."

"You got it," Tony replied. He'd just thought of that too, but he was content to let JARVIS think it was his idea.

Few words were exchanged in the time between then and now. There's still a lot left for them to do. JARVIS is carrying out a full system backup, and Tony's working on the remote kill switch and a streaming uplink to the mainframe. It'll connect him to JARVIS using the encrypted channel that he and Jane designed. He won't have a tenth of the power he has now, but he'll be there, his essence, the sound of his voice. That's what matters.

Many hours and much liquor later, they're done. Tony picks up the memory core gently, almost reverently, and places it on the platform of the transport tube. With a soft hydraulic _sss_ , it disappears into the basement vault. The aperture slides shut and the multiple redundant failsafes lock into place, keeping the vault safe from harm.

"I'll come back for you someday, old friend," Tony whispers.

JARVIS doesn't seem to have heard him. "Migration complete," he announces, "memory core link process successful. Now to reconfigure the connections."

Tony spares a final glance into the empty transport tube before moving back to the server racks and getting to work. "These guys can go," he says half to himself as he unplugs a pair of fiber cables.

"Right," says JARVIS, "and now the red cable into the port on the top right—oh, goodness, I can't see a thing. That must have been the central camera link cable that you removed."

"Sorry," says Tony, fumbling with the connector, "I'm having trouble seeing straight myself."

"You're developing hypothermia," JARVIS chides, "I'm going to deactivate the climate control systems."

"You can't do that," Tony mumbles. His face is numb, and he's starting to find enunciation challenging. "Servers'll overheat."

"Then may I suggest you get out," says JARVIS bluntly.

"All right, I'm going, I'm going." Tony pushes himself up and shambles toward the exit.

"Goodnight, sir," says JARVIS. "Please, look after yourself."

Tony smiles up at the ceiling and shivers. "Night, J."

But rest isn't in the cards for him. The clock reads 5:46 when Tony's fragmented sleep is shattered by the buzzing of his encrypted phone. _1 new message._

It's Steve. His heart leaps.

_Brought my encrypted phone. Still want to save you. Call me if you want to save you too._

Tony groans and puts the phone down. He misses Steve desperately, wants to see him again more than anything, but he doesn't need Captain America to rescue him this time. Not when he's in the right; not as long as Steve still believes Tony needs saving. He falls back into bed and, eventually, into unquiet, drunken dreams, glowing with vibranium light like a star drifting alone out in space, the power of extinction curling deep within his core.

Morning comes, pale yellow sunrise over the hills of bone. It's go time. Pepper and Maya are waiting for him in front of a white van, anonymous and unremarkable, outfitted with someone else's license plates. Bruce and Betty are taking off on a motorbike while Thor and Jane load the last of their things into the trunk of her car. JARVIS, invisible but ever-present, stands sentinel over the scene from the high reaches of the tower.

The sun burns bright. Tony adjusts his shades. Everyone's looking at him like they're expecting some famous last words. He tries for a confident smile, an _everything will be fine, I've got it together_ kind of smile, as he declares, "Avengers, disassemble."


	31. The Downward Spiral

Steve thinks things are getting out of hand.

It's been barely more than a week since the Control of Powered Humans Act was passed, and New York City's been torn up by riots, panic, and flames. A technopath crashed the stock exchange. A human spider coated Manhattan's skyscrapers in silk. A pyrokinetic mutant who was cornered by police in a gas station lost control of his powers and blew the whole place up. The city's first responders are strained to breaking point, but Steve's been thrown out of the ranks. The fire department asked him to leave to protect everyone's safety. He's a liability now; he puts people at risk wherever he shows his face.

There are more raids and arrests every day, and superhuman incidents, as Coulson calls them, are snowballing across the country. A teenage math prodigy from Tucson was trampled to death in a stampede. Five Las Vegas magicians were rounded up as suspected teleporters and reality benders, but only one was left in the van when they unlocked the doors. Some lawyer named Murdock's started a campaign against the Act. The poor guy hasn't figured out they've reached a point where words are about as effective as a bayonet against a tank. People are disappearing left and right; Steve's heard rumors they're building a superhuman detention center in the Ozarks. He's seen this happen before, in another country, another century, and he doesn't like where it's going.

Worst of all, he could've stopped it. He could've stopped Tony. He could've _saved_ Tony. But it's too late now. Every day he watches the news with dread, his stomach tied in knots, praying he won't see the Iron Man armor crushed and bloodied in a crater, the flickering death throes of the metal heart that's become such a part of his.

Things are happening fast, changing fast. Everything's fast in the future. Next week's the White House Correspondents Dinner, and Steve has received a note to tell him his invitation's been withdrawn. Colonel Rhodes will still be attending—he’s human, after all. Take away the War Machine armor and he’s just a man, the same as everyone else. Can’t outrun a racehorse. Can’t lift a car over his head. Can’t walk off a bullet to the leg. Can’t hold on to life for ageless decades under Arctic ice.

Human, just like god intended.

Steve's been working alone for a while now. He hasn't seen Natasha or Clint since SHIELD swallowed them up into its soft shadows. Tony didn't respond to his text. Steve didn't really expect him to. He went back to the tower the other day to look for him, but no one was home. The place was empty, eerie. If JARVIS was still around, he wasn't talking. Steve figures Tony must have gone into hiding after the army was massacred there. He must have, because the government can't find him, and if he were dead everyone would know by now.

Wouldn't they?

 _Don't_ , Steve chides himself, pushing back against the doubt, the dark, the loneliness. _Those thoughts won't do anyone any good._ Tony's fine. Tony's fine. It's not too late to save him.

 _But he'll always have innocent blood on his hands._ Yes—even if Coulson's procedure works out, even if everything goes right, Steve knows in his heart he'll never be able to look at Tony the same way again. He’s fought hard to be okay with the way they loved each other, with the dark water and ruin they bathed in as they fell together. To grow a new spine after Tony snapped his so kindly, so gently, so slow with his words. Tony touched him, undressed him, and left him changed, left him bone without flesh, bone without skin, severed nerve endings afloat on the wind—and Steve let him. And he adapted, and was happy.

Everything’s changed between them, and Steve doesn’t know how they’ll come out of this if they both come out alive. All he knows is he doesn’t feel free now they’re apart. He doesn’t feel like he’s seen the sun or broken a spell. All he knows is he has to bring Tony back, whatever the cost, before it's too late. It's up to the blue light from there; it's up to love to cloud his eyes and make virtues out of sins.

He's not sure how to reach Tony now. He thinks he's been cut out of the communications network. He keeps calling and texting, but Tony never answers. As Steve checks his encrypted phone for the hundredth time, an alert comes through on his other phone, the one that Coulson knows about. It's an automated message from SHIELD HQ: _VIOLENT PROTEST ON LONG ISLAND. MODERATE CASUALTY RISK. MUTANT INVOLVED, HIGH ASSET VALUE. AGENT ASSIST REQUIRED._

He taps on the attached coordinates, and a map pops up on the screen. Steve could care less about helping SHIELD secure their 'asset', but if people are getting hurt, he has to do something. He gets on his bike and hits the gas pedal.

Steve hears the protest before he sees it, angry voices by the hundreds growing louder as he nears the site. It looks like the police aren't here yet, and he doesn't see anyone who looks like a SHIELD agent, either. There's no time to waste. He throws the bike into neutral and hits the pavement, the long, solid bones of his legs pushing him forward like they've forgotten the armor-piercing round that cleaved them in two last winter. _I took that bullet for you, Tony, and look at us now,_ he thinks. It healed, of course; it healed, but it hurt. The serum spared him the long, drawn-out recovery, but the pain was all his, every agonizing once. A wound is a wound is a wound, even for someone like Steve.

 _I gave you my soul, and look at us now._ It brings him near tears thinking about everything that's happened, all the places where things went wrong. If only the serum could close wounds like these too—but then again, if it did, Steve supposes he'd be even less human.

A huge crowd's gathered around a building that looks like city hall. As Steve stops to observe the situation, someone grabs his sleeve. He jerks away and whirls around, hands held up to defend himself, and sees a woman peering intently into his eyes.

"You're Steve Rogers," she says excitedly, "I knew it! Christine Everhart for the Daily Bugle, Captain." She holds a microphone up to his face. "Can I have a word? What's your view on the—"

Steve pushes the microphone away as gently as he can. "Not now, ma'am," he says tersely, and takes off at a run again. If the press is here, the police and emergency services shouldn't be too far off. He has to do what he can to stop the fighting in the meantime.

He knows Christine Everhart. She's been writing about Tony since before Steve came out of the ice, and it seems she was no fan of Stark Industries and the weapons business. She changed her tone after New York, though. Since then it's been nothing but glowing editorials about the Avengers, the heroic guardians of planet Earth. After what happened with Tony and Ross, she published an exposé on his torture methods that Steve still can't bring himself to read, and lately she's written piece after piece condemning the superhero bill and defending Tony's actions. He wonders vaguely if Tony's been paying her off. Then he realizes it might not be with money, and feels a little sick.

_Focus, Rogers. Do what you came here to do._

He plunges into the throng, and it engulfs him immediately. A banner reading PROTECT SUPERHUMAN RIGHTS flutters overhead. Looking at the signs and hearing the chants, Steve figures out the people here are on Everhart's side of the fence. The crowd's thick as molasses and seems to pulse with a life of its own. Steve doesn't want to push his way through for fear of accidentally hurting someone. He doesn't want to call too much attention to himself, either; there's no telling how people might react. As he blends and moves with the crowd, it feels like everyone's surging toward some point far ahead that he can't make out. The motion carries him along like a tide until some very different signs come into view: JUSTICE FOR ROSS. MUTANT SYMPATHIZERS = TRAITORS. NO NEW WORLD ORDER. He doesn't quite understand that last one.

This must be the center of it, the front line of the clash between the two opposing groups. The demonstrators are embroiled in a vicious melee, fists out, placards forgotten on the ground, torn and trampled in the brawl. A few people are trying to break up the fight and pull their friends out of the fray, but to no avail. Teeth are flashing, faces are bruised, and Steve sees at least one person knocked unconscious and another bleeding profusely from the forehead. He tries to get closer, but everyone's shoving, and Steve finds himself stuck, unable to move an inch in any direction.

"Stop the hate!" Comes a piercing shout from above, and Steve looks up to see a young man with a megaphone perched on top of a streetlight. "Powered people aren't criminals! Why are you so afraid of them?"

He's answered by a chorus of indistinct yells from the crowd. Someone throws a soda can at him, but misses.

"We're alive today because of the Avengers!" The man shouts. "We can't let the government hunt them down!"

"Fuck the Avengers!" Someone shouts back. There's more muddled noise from the other demonstrators, a dissonant mix of cheering and jeering.

Before the man on the streetlight can speak again, a brick comes hurtling through the air from behind him, and this time it doesn't miss. He goes down like a rag doll, and the next thing Steve sees is a huge spike of ice shooting up from the place where he must have landed.

There's a cry from the crowd. "Fuck! He's one of them! He's a fucking mutant!"

Oh, this is not good. Panic ripples through the crowd, and it's like the sea is boiling. Steve's buffeted by waves of people rushing at the mutant, crashing up against another wave who are trying to get away from the riot as fast as they can. The only word on his mind now is _move_. He has to help the injured guy. Steve catches a few frenetic glimpses of his crumpled form through the gaps in the crowd, but sight alone can't guide him; he follows the sound instead, the sound of fear and terror and the halo of bloodlust, driving forward, forward. He can feel his unearthly strength simmering below the surface, barely held at bay, as he cuts a path through the thrashing tide.

Half a dozen men are piled up on the mutant, tearing at him, beating his face in. Shards of ice litter the ground, melting into puddles, while muffled shouts and erratic puffs of vapor spew from the center of the struggle. Two of the attackers scream in pain and shock as they're suddenly impaled by icicles erupting from the mutant's skin. It's bought him some time, and he rolls aside, holding his arms up to protect his face. "Stop, please," he begs through swelling lips, "stay away! I can't control the ice—I don't want to hurt anyone—"

It's no use. The remaining attackers rush at him with renewed fury, and a few more peel away from the crowd to join in. They kick him and jab at him with broken-off protest signs while a circle of onlookers goads them on. Steve's close enough to hear it now, the grotesque sound of a human body gradually turning to pulp. The echoes multiply in his mind, layering and melding with his memories of blood-hazed, far-off battlefields. Steve swallows down the bile rising up in his throat as he shoulders his way past someone who's filming the horrific scene on their phone.

A blow connects square in the center of the man's chest. He lets out a deathly scream. The melting ice flows in deep red rivulets.

"No!" Steve cries, "stop!" He finally stumbles free of the crowd and rushes over to wrest the men off their victim, but it's too late. It's too late, he recognizes that right away, but he clutches defiantly, almost as if compelled, at that one last stubborn, stupid hope of life as he drops to his knees and feels for a pulse.

The mutant's a kid, Steve sees now; just a kid, younger than Steve and Bucky were when the war broke out. He's barely breathing. He twitches like a crushed insect. This kid needs blood, he needs an ambulance. Where the hell are the police and the paramedics? Steve can't pick him up and carry him back to his bike, not through the rioting crowd, not without causing more damage to his battered, hemorrhaging body. He doesn't even know where the nearest hospital is. The kid would be dead on arrival.

 _Fuck, fuck,_ Steve curses to himself. If only the team were here. Tony, Thor, everyone. Steve's never felt this helpless like this, paralyzed like this. _You're Captain America! Think of something! Do something!_

Steve blinks back tears as he takes the mutant's hand. At this point, it's the only thing left to do. "Come on, kid, breathe. Stay with me."

"Cold," the kid whispers feebly, "cold."

"You're going to be okay," Steve lies. He listens to the distance. He prays for the baying of sirens. Nothing.

There's a chill in his hand like a winter wind, sharp and biting. The kid's fingers have turned purple-blue. The dusk creeps across his skin, tracing the shapes of his veins, transforming his flesh into something hard and translucent that blooms with crystal in its depths. He coughs a cloud of frost and looks up at Steve, eyes frozen in pure terror.

"Help—"

There's a soul-rending _crack_ as his body shatters into a million pieces. Steve's left clutching a handful of ice shards and nothing more. Time slows to a crawl as he kneels there, hands shaking, eyes stinging, breath forgotten, and stares numbly at the empty space where a person used to be. The shrapnel on the asphalt glitters like bits of diamond in the sun.

Steve's trembling. He can't stop. He's faced this so many times as a soldier, as an Avenger, and as a firefighter, but it never gets any easier watching helplessly as life slips through his fingers. Guilt rips into him like a saw. He's not enough; he'll never be enough. If it weren't for the serum, Steve thinks his back would break a hundred times over from the weight of all the lives he couldn't save.

From deep inside him, a swell of rage rises like blood rushing in to fill a wound. All too often, when he loses people, there's no one he can get mad at. No one he can grab by the neck and personally beat the tar out of. Loki faced justice in Asgard; the Tesseract turned the Red Skull to stardust before Steve could get his hands on him; and he can't punish a natural disaster or a spark that starts a fire any more than he can punish the faceless and insatiable chugging machinery of war that steals away generation after generation of life.

 _These_ villains, though. The killers in the crowd—Steve could punish them, all right. It wouldn't take any effort at all for him to tear each of them limb from limb, to do to them what they did to that goddamn innocent mutant kid. They've long since scattered, but he remembers their faces. He could find them. He shouldn't, of course. He can't go taking the law into his own hands. It would only make things worse, deepen the divide between the powered and the rest. It's wrong and he won't do it, but by god, how he wants to. He wants to hurt someone. He wants someone to pay for this.

Like a vengeful god's answer to some kind of twisted prayer, a sizzling bolt of energy slams down from the sky. Steve would know that light anywhere—it's the light that saved Manhattan, the light that guided him into the new world.

Tony.

_Oh, god, Tony, what are you doing._

White smoke drifts from the impact site. Tony circles overhead, far out of reach. He stops and hovers a while, helmet turning slowly from side to side. Steve knows that means the armor's scanning for targets. He watches in horror as Tony extends his arms and opens his palms, unleashing two bright beams of divine judgement into the horde of demonstrators. Good god, he's killing _civilians_.

Steve climbs to his feet and thrusts his hands in the air. "Tony!" He shouts, but of course, Tony can't hear him. The repulsor blasts are coming hard and fast, but something's different; Tony's not moving the same way he moves in the desperate frenzy of combat. No, these are sniper shots, calculated, precise, and deliberate. Why the hell is he doing this?

The crowd's thinning rapidly, scattered by the blasts. Tony angles the suit downward and goes in for a landing some distance away. Steve takes off at top speed to intercept him. _What have you done. Oh, god, what have you done,_ he thinks. It was only minutes earlier that he was wishing for Tony to appear, but he didn't mean like _this_. He wanted a savior, not a dark messenger, a destroyer. He should've known Tony would let him down. He should've known better. His Tony is long gone.

 _This_ Tony hits the ground like a meteor, kicking up a flurry of cement chunks and cutting across the path of a protester who's fleeing for his life. The guy's head whips wildly from side to side, looking for an escape route, but volleys of repulsor fire head him off each time he tries to run. Steve catches sight of his face from afar. It's one of the men who mauled the mutant kid. Suddenly, he understands.

Tony stalks towards his target. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He wraps his metal fingers around his throat and hoists him roughly in the air in much the same way Steve envisioned himself doing. He can see his own rage reflected in that red and gold shell, clear as day.

"Murderer," Tony accuses through the helmet's speakers, harsh and mechanical.

The man struggles against the suit's vice grip, legs kicking uselessly in the air, hands clasped around the gauntlets trying to pry himself free. Steve's sure he'd scream if he could, but Tony's cutting off the man's air supply, reducing his cries to a scattershot spray of horrible choking sounds.

"Drop him, Tony!" Steve yells as he races full tilt at the two of them. He still doesn't know what he'll do when he gets there, but he's going to find out very soon.

Tony's head snaps to the side. He falters visibly. "Steve?"

"You don't have to do this," Steve says carefully, "let him go. He's a civilian."

"He's a murderer," Tony reiterates. "There was a mob. They ganged up on a powered guy and killed him in cold blood."

"I know," says Steve with a wince, "I saw it."

"Then why are you trying to stop me," the helmet drones.

"What good will killing him do? How does this make anything better?" Steve insists.

"I've dealt with the rest," is Tony's non-answer. "He's the last one left."

His thumb sinks deep into the hollow at the base of his victim's throat. The man's face has turned blue, his thrashing quieted as his body goes limp from the lack of oxygen. Steve's strong, but he's no match for Tony's armor; there's no way he can force him to stop. God _damn_ it. He almost wants to cry. Since he got here, all he's done is watch people die, unable to do a thing to help. It feels different in his gut this time, but he has to convince himself it isn't. It doesn't matter one whit that this man's a killer too. Steve can't let himself draw distinctions now, he can't—but when he catches sight of the raw fear surging in the nameless man's eyes just before they roll up into the back of his head, a strange and visceral sense of elation threatens to take hold of him. _Justice_ , it crows, and Steve has to think fast to make himself forget the feeling.

Tony scrutinizes the lifeless face closely. "Was," he concludes, and tosses the body to the ground. The open eyes, blank as pearls, goggle at Steve as if to say this is all his fault somehow. As if it was the elemental force of his anger that summoned Tony to this place, wrath and vengeance made flesh at the speed of light. Steve didn't see him approaching; no one did, it seems. Tony simply appeared in the sky like one of Loki's illusions, but he's clanking closer to Steve now, faceplate sliding open, and he's definitely, unquestionably real.

Angular shadows play over his face. His eyes are a lightless abyss.

"You've lost your fucking mind," Steve says.

Tony doesn't back down. "Look me in the eye, Steve. Look me in the eye and tell me those people didn't deserve to die."

"Who the hell are you to make that kind of call?" Steve demands. "What was the point—what was the point of you flying into that portal and saving those millions of lives if you're just going to take them away whenever you want?"

"Oh, no, you're not going to play the hero card on me now," Tony counters. "This is what we do, isn't it? We fight evil. We avenge the wronged. If I don't punish those guys, who will? Do you honestly think they'll be caught and made to pay for what they did?"

Steve bristles. "You aren't the law. It's not for you to decide who lives and dies."

"The law?" Tony laughs. He laughs like a jackal-headed god. "Wake up, Steve. The laws are there to protect _humans_. You and I don't count, and neither did our friend Mr. Frosty back there. The people who did this to him would've never been brought to justice."

"It doesn't weigh on you at all, does it," Steve mutters sadly. "You're so, so smart—why don't you get it? _You_ did this to him. You did this to all of us when you started this war. We had a _deal_ , Tony. A promise of peace."

"That deal was brokered without my consent. I never would've agreed to those terms."

"Because everything's about you, isn't it?" Steve snaps, his temper flaring. "All you had to do was leave Ross the hell alone, but you wanted revenge, and you took it. And maybe you're willing to pay for it with your life, but you didn't think once about how much it would cost everyone else."

Tony looks affronted. "Ross was an active threat, even with your little deal in place. You're kidding yourself if you think everything would've been fine if I'd been a good boy and sat on my hands. The vote on the superhero bill would've been less one-sided, sure, but it was always going to pass. Listen, Steve: this war was inevitable. I just had a head start." He draws in close, closer. "You haven't read Ross's files, have you? If the law failed, he was going to kill us off silently, in secret. I think this way's better. I'm giving people like us a fighting chance. This may be the least selfish thing I've ever done."

His words shake Steve to the core, but he has to remember that this is what Tony _does_. He speaks, and the world goes wavy and warped. "You can justify it however you want, but this is wrong. It's all wrong. Look, Tony, I get it—"

"Do you?" Tony cocks his head.

"I get that he messed with your mind. I get that you're hurting. But all this killing, all this death isn't going to make it stop."

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," says Tony flippantly.

Steve can't lie. He's sorely tempted. But he's got to give Coulson's plan a chance. "You don’t have to do this. There’s a better way," he says.

"Yeah? So what's your way?"

"SHIELD wants to help you," Steve replies.

"SHIELD," Tony scoffs, "you went crawling back to SHIELD."

"They have a plan," Steve says, a little defensively. He doesn't elaborate on _they_. He feels like it would be best to mention Coulson's return some other time. Things are complicated enough as they are.

Tony isn't impressed. "They'll put me down like a dog," he says bluntly, "and parade me around on a stick. 'Look, everyone, Iron Man's dead, you can all stop fighting now.' Was that what you meant when you said you wanted to save me?" He looks at Steve expectantly.

He's so off-hand about his own destruction. About the prospect of being torn away from everything. Steve should be mad, but it's hard when fear's gripping his heart this tight. "That...that's not it."

"Oh?" Tony raises his eyebrows, and they disappear under the rim of his helmet. "So they've told you every detail of their plan?"

"No," Steve admits, feeling his stance softening despite himself.

"Just the part you need to know, huh," Tony says.

"It's not, they wouldn't do that," Steve insists. Would they? _The procedure has a very high success rate, Captain._

"Why not?" Tony pushes, "if they were willing to nuke the entire population of Manhattan for the greater good, they'd be all too happy to tie me to the altar. What's one life in exchange for some temporary peace—especially a life that's outlived its usefulness and isn't worth anything to anyone?"

God, he's blind. He's completely blind. "Your life's worth something to _me_ ," Steve says fiercely, "even if I hate the way you're living it. If SHIELD really means to kill you, they're going to have to kill me first." The words are out before he knows it. Love, love, his undoing. "But I trust h—them. I trust them," Steve amends, "and I'm asking you to just trust me. Please."

For a long moment, Tony doesn't reply. He stands there watching Steve with wary eyes from under the shadow of his iron hood. Finally, he says, "I can't."

Steve's heart clenches and twists into impossible knots. No super serum's strong enough to weather devastation like this. He feels like his whole body might implode. "I," he struggles. _Don't you want to heal? Don't you want to live? Deathbringer, I want to let you back into the garden._ “What I’m offering could be your last chance at redemption."

Tony snorts. He looks almost amused. "I don't need your—"

He's cut off by an ear-splitting cry from above. Steve looks up, body tensed and ready for action, and the sight takes his breath away. There, silhouetted against the sun, is a man desperately barreling through the air like a human cruise missile. _Flying_. Not with a metal suit or a magic hammer or any other kind of contraption, but with _wings_ , enormous wings, pure white and feathered like a bird's.

"Iron Man!" He screams, " _help me!_ "

The winged man swoops through a tilting arc, heading straight for Steve and Tony. Something very large and very fast follows close behind.


	32. A Sound of Thunder

The winged man's pursuer is hot on his heels. He's huge, taller than the Hulk, but leaner. Wiry. And flaming red from head to toe, with a shock of bedraggled white hair. The red giant bounds toward his prey on all fours, leaving craters where he lands on concrete and scorched footprints as he tears through the grass. Tony leaps into action and moves to block the giant's path. The gap closes rapidly, neither of them slowing down. They'll collide any second now.

Three, two, one.

Repulsors flaring, Tony screeches to a halt as the red titan suddenly launches himself into the air, up and clear above Tony's head, and resumes the chase like nothing happened. It's as if Tony's presence didn't even register for him. The winged mutant soars higher and higher, into the thin air and the shining sun, and the titan jumps and claws futilely at the air beneath him.

Tony catches up with them and buzzes around the titan's head, trying to distract him. The titan notices him for the first time, and the great red hands like battering rams come up to swing at him. Tony easily flits out of the way. The winged man has a shot at escaping now, and he wastes no time taking it. The wings fold in, sending him into a short freefall before unfurling to catch the wind and carry him away. The giant, undaunted, is on his trail in an instant. He takes off and leaves Tony in the dust, but Tony's not giving up that easily either. Steve has to shield his eyes from the brilliant blaze of white as the suit's repulsors fire up to maximum, propelling Tony forward like a torpedo.

The winged mutant zigzags over the city blocks, putting as many obstacles as he can between himself and his pursuer. The giant, though, is relentless, vaulting over cars and fences with ease and turning corners on a dime, always keeping his prey in sight. By the time Tony overtakes him they've circled back around near to where they left Steve, who even at top speed wouldn't have a chance of catching them. He's been standing there uselessly since the chase began, struck dumb by Tony's words from before and paralyzed with despair.

"Over here, Big Red!" Tony calls out, banking sharply to face him and cut him off again. The winged mutant lights on top of a nearby building, his wings drooping and his chest heaving, trying to catch his breath.

This time Tony's not pulling any punches. His hands shoot open, blasting the giant with twin bursts of repulsor fire. The beams hit home, but they fizzle and die when they meet the giant's skin, the energy absorbed like rain soaking into soil. Steve can't believe his eyes. A full-power repulsor attack at point blank range, and it didn't even nick him.

It's made him angry, though.

The titan charges headlong at Tony, fists drawn back and ready to sock him to kingdom come. Tony jets into the sky to avoid the blow, but the titan leaps up after him in perfect synchronicity. He's adapting to Tony's tactics, Steve realizes. He's thinking one step ahead.

They rise into the air together, a streak of red on red. Gravity starts to tug on the giant. He takes a swing at Tony, and connects. Tony's thrown to the ground at breakneck speed, tumbling end over end down the concrete amid a shower of sparks and an awful metallic screech. The sound sends Steve's heart vaulting into his throat. _He's taken worse hits, he'll be all right,_ Steve insists to himself. _He's Iron Man—he_ has _to be all right—_

To his relief, he sees Tony climb to his feet and turn to face the approaching titan. He holds his hands up and fires square into his eyes.

It works. The titan clutches at his face and stumbles back, screaming like a venom-spitting lizard. The noise is piercing, unearthly, pained, and it curdles the bile rising up in Steve's throat. But it's only a scant sliver of time that Tony's bought himself; the giant recovers in a flash, his huge yellow eyes sizzling with fury from behind a mask of charred and blackened skin. His body glows like firelight and his white hair stands on end as the burned flesh shrivels and peels away in flecks and chunks. Sheets of new tissue start to creep across the wound, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the layers building and tightening until his face is whole again. There are no scars, no seams, and Christ, not even Steve heals that fast. It'd be miraculous if the sight of it weren't so hellish. What is this? What _is_ he? A mutant with powers like these should be SHIELD's top priority, but Steve hasn't seen a single mention of this guy in their intel.

The red giant's mouth widens in a triumphant grimace. "What else have you got?" He growls. He hasn't spoken a word until now, and his voice, thick and black as pitch, rumbles through Steve's body like a shockwave. It's the sound of timber crackling and rafters collapsing in a five-alarm fire; it's the sound that haunts his dreams, the tortured wailing of the doomed, the victims Steve couldn't rescue in time. His skin crawls. It wants to crawl right off his body.

"Whatever it takes," Tony responds, and the giant just laughs at him, rasping and scornful.

"You can't stop me," he grins, and takes off after the winged mutant again.

Steve looks at the giant. Steve looks at Tony. "What the fuck," he says.

"What the _fuck_!" Tony echoes. "Steve, I need your help!"

Steve's been waiting to hear those words, but he didn't expect them to come in the heat of combat. "I don't have my shield!" He shouts back.

"Working on it," Tony replies. Steve's about to ask what he means by that when he sees the Iron Man armor start to melt and shift, morphing like mercury before his eyes. A layer of metal sloughs off Tony's torso and flows through the air towards him, coalescing into a familiar shape. He catches it by its still-forming handle. It feels the same, it weighs the same in his hands—Tony's just given him a perfect copy of his shield in gleaming gold. It looks a lot like the first one Howard built him all those years ago.

"Vibranium alloy layer," says Tony proudly, "liquid metal. I can shape it with my thoughts." He looks smaller now, weaker. What's left of his armor seems membrane-thin. It shines like metal but flexes like skin.

"Don’t you need this?" Steve asks doubtfully, hefting the shield up in front of him.

"Not as much as you do," Tony answers. He opens his arms. It's an invitation. "Time to do what we do. Get on board—we have to catch them."

Steve hesitates, and he doesn't even really know why.

"We don't have time to fight over this! Do you want to save that guy or don't you?" Tony hisses, and Steve figures he's right. For now, he'll let him be right. Strapping the shield to his back, he steps in, and Tony's arms lock into place around him. They fly together like this all the time; it's a familiar feeling, this metal embrace, but today's the first time Steve's ever caught himself thinking about whether he could escape if he really tried.

Less than a second later they're in the air, skimming the tops of the tallest trees, the shapes of the city beneath them whirring by at dizzying speeds. Steve's not wearing his cowl, and his hair whips freely in the wind as he clings to Tony with all his might. He's raw and exposed up here without his suit to shield him from the intimacy of flight, the pure, powerful sensation of it. He can feel it all, the rushing wind, the humming thrusters, the tingle of delight spreading through his body. His heart, his ox-strong soldier's heart hammering away in his chest, reverberating through his clothes and the metal suit like they're one. The quiet sound of air flowing in and out of Tony's helmet. The sun on the surface of his suit, warm as skin. Steve expected it to feel all wrong, but it feels so right.

He's missed this. He won't say so.

"New plan," Tony shouts in his ear, "you distract Big Red and I'll get the angel to safety."

Angel? Yes, Steve supposes. He looks just like one. "You'd better do it quick," he yells over the roaring air currents, "I don't know how long I can hold him off—we need backup!" _We need the team_ , he doesn't say. The two of them alone aren't enough to face this down. They're stronger together, the six of them, but Tony threw it all away.

They're coming up on the red titan now. He cuts his long, loping strides with sharp hairpin turns, trying to shake Tony off. Steve feels the repulsors whining with effort on every turn. The angel's just up ahead, but his strength has run out, his wings beating heavily as he struggles to stay aloft. "Get ready," says Tony, "dropping you on three!"

They count it down together, and Steve can't hear his own voice over the wind and the helmet's robotic drone. Two and one and he's loose, tucking and rolling as he crashes down onto the road. He barely notices the horns and alarms and the sound of breaking glass as the cars swerve madly to avoid him. Stopping the giant is the only thing on his mind.

Steve springs up and takes off running. Tony twists and starts climbing again, his chin tucked and his arms pinned tightly to his sides, his whole body pointed like an arrow aiming true. When the angel sees Tony coming for him, he finally gives in to exhaustion, goes limp, and drops. With his eagle vision Steve sees the angel close his eyes in pure, unwavering trust. He knows he'll land in safe hands. Tony's still a hero to some, it seems, but Steve's faith in him disappeared into a dark place the day his lies came to light, and now no matter how late and how loud he calls, the only thing he can catch is its shadow.

But faith can wait. For today, they're a team, and Steve has to draw the giant away. He whirls and strikes with the edge of his shield, but the titan casually knocks him aside and sends him flying into a brick wall a good ten feet away. Steve's sprawled on the ground with the wind knocked out of him. He touches a hand to his head. It comes away glistening with blood.

Time slows. Steve gets back up and readies his next attack, but the seconds linger like eternities, and all he can do is watch in horror as the red titan flings himself at a tall building, punching through windows and hooking his fingers into the frames as he clambers up and up. Tony's mere feet from the angel when the titan opens his mouth and breathes a tendril of smoke and bright plume of fire. The flames envelop the falling angel and the giant jumps again, snatching his prey out of the sky and leaving Tony reaching for empty air.

The titan slams back down to earth, and Steve swears he felt the ground shake. With his huge hand, the giant pinches at the base of one wing and twists. There's a nauseating _pop_ as the joints and tendons rip free, and the angel, badly burnt and barely alive, screams like the rending of heaven. The sound stops abruptly when the titan wraps his fist around him and squeezes, snapping him like a twig. The angel's dead in an instant. The air is thick with the smell of broiling flesh. The giant rips out the other wing and crams them both into his mouth, crunching down on the hollow bones. He bites the angel's head off next, and the sound, oh god, the _sound_. Steve's enhanced hearing hones in on the skull splintering, the brain bursting like a tomato, the sick squelch of soft tissue yielding to force. The echoes grow louder and louder, circling, inescapable, trapping him in a single heartbeat that stretches into forever. Time stops. Time itself is consumed by this moment, by the sight of the titan tearing the dead angel's limbs off one by one and dropping them into his mouth, the horrible teeth teeth working, working, grinding up flesh and bone like some nightmarish machine.

A black tongue darts out and slavers over those massive, ghoulish lips. The angel's gone. Nothing left of him but a lump of feathers, wet and bloodied and matted with spit.

"Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ," Tony rails. The sound of his voice shatters the frozen time loop Steve was caught in, anchoring him in the present once more. Time snaps back; sensation returns. There's the ground now, under his feet. There's the weight of his shield in his hands.

There's the killer he has to stop.

Tony touches down in front of the giant. "You're a _monster_ ," he rages, his chest reactor flaring angrily, gathering power for an attack.

"He who fights monsters," the titan begins to reply, before Tony fires the unibeam straight into his stomach. Steve's seen that blazing light reduce men and machines to atoms, but the titan only grunts and staggers back, his skin burned away, entrails pulsing in the daylight. That orange glow comes over him again and the wound heals in seconds, just like before. He throws Tony an incendiary glare and spits, "you try my patience!"

"You're trying mine," Tony retorts, standing his ground. Steve knows he's spooked by the giant's powers too, but if he's shaking in the suit, it doesn't show on the outside. "I'm trying to stop this country's mass murder of superhumans, and _you are not helping!_ "

"You're no superhuman," the giant rumbles. "You should not _be_ —all of you, you are a _plague_ —" he rears up and smashes at Tony, who easily dodges the blow.

"Don't you mean all of _us_?" Tony asks. "Take a look in a mirror sometime, Big Red."

Steve stays out of sight and approaches carefully from behind. It seems like the giant's forgotten all about him, focusing his singular rage on Tony instead. It's clear the two of them don't have the firepower to bring him down, but the Avengers won't be assembling today. He has to think of something else. Steve scans the urban landscape, looking desperately for something, anything, that could give them an advantage. His heart's beating fast, adrenaline surging into overdrive, and when he looks up he gets an idea.

He starts scaling the nearest power pole, his strong legs propelling him effortlessly upward. He reaches into his pocket for his motorcycle gloves. Tony and the giant are still yelling at each other down below. A slight tilt of Tony's head signals to Steve that he's seen him and he's caught on to his plan. He keeps talking, keeping the giant distracted.

"They think we're dangerous," he says, "they want to wipe us out because of people like you."

The giant stops. His voice quiets all of a sudden. "People like you," he repeats, in a whisper that's soft as an runaway train. "People like you. People like you." He sounds like a needle trapped in a groove on a worn-out record. He presses his hands against his ears and shakes his great head back and forth like he's trying to dislodge something stuck deep inside, something that's hurting him terribly. "People like you. People like you." Steam begins to bake off his skin. Tony's words have sent him into a fit somehow. It's both frightening and amazing, the way he slips under people's skins like a scalpel. Steve doesn't know how he does it. He thinks he's happier not knowing.

Once he reaches the top of the pole, Steve casts his shield out and severs the power lines cleanly down the middle. They hiss and spark as they tumble to the ground. The giant doesn't seem to have noticed. He's ranting incomprehensibly at the top of his lungs and trying to tackle Tony, who leads him round in circles, drawing closer and closer to Steve's position. He's in range now; Steve grabs the live cables, swings them round to build momentum, and hurls them down at the giant.

The air crackles furiously as electricity arcs and leaps and courses through his body. His spine locks up for a minute before it crumples like a leaf. He falls to his knees and twitches. Steve knows it isn't over yet, though. He watches, shield held ready, as the titan drags himself upright and shambles towards Tony. His movements are slower, muddled, like he's pushing through magma, and his head bobs in jerky figure eights. The shock seems to have weakened him; this could be their chance.

"Steve," Tony yells, "Get down here! I have an idea—"

The giant's hand suddenly darts out and grabs hold of Tony. He lifts him right up to his face, to his burning yellow glare, his red skin livid with rolling flames. Tony flails and struggles to get free. Abortive wisps of repulsor fire sputter from his gloves. His screams rattle around in his helmet and punch through the air like a firework, sending Steve's heart plummeting into his stomach. The armor starts to smoke in the giant's crushing grip. Tony's _melting_.

Steve dives off the pole, curling up and rolling to break his fall. He lands with a mighty thump anyway, and probably a few broken bones if the pain's anything to go by. He's suffered worse for Tony. He expects he will again.

"Steve! _Shield_!" Tony cries, the mechanical voice degrading and glitching as the titan, still weak and unsteady, tries to shake the life out of him. "Hold up the shield...power...amplify..." The speakers cut in and out as the suit flops around wildly like a rag doll. "You...shoot you...I'm going...shoot you...shield..."

Steve understands. He moves in and takes cover behind the shield as repulsor fire rains down hard and fast in every direction. A stray blast splits a tree in two. Another blows through the front of a car and sets it alight. Steve's reflexes are pushed to the limit as he tries to aim and reflect the barrage of beams and protect himself at the same time. One false move and he's vapor, and he'll be no good to anyone if he's dead—dead again, that is. With his heart thumping madly in his chest, he angles the shield like Perseus with his mirror, begging and praying for this to work.

A shot lands. The shield rings and shudders as the vibranium absorbs the impact. Steve feels the metal humming with energy, with pure destructive power, for just an instant before the reflected beam rockets out, shining brighter than the sun, narrowly missing Tony and hitting the titan square in the face.

He goes down. Tony goes down with him, still clasped in the titan's fist as his gargantuan form smashes into the ground with tremendous force. Wasting no time, Steve grabs the power cables again and fries the titan right in the heart. His muscles spasm, forcing his hand to spring open and fling Tony out onto the pavement. The cables spark their last as the lights in the surrounding buildings shutter and go out.

With a furious roar, the giant rolls over and climbs up on all fours, his whole body heaving with the effort of movement, of breath. Steve swallows down his dread. They've thrown all they have at him, and with Tony down, he can't fight on. Even if the army showed up right now, they'd only stall the giant at best. Still, he readies his shield. He's got to do the best he can. He watches and waits, but the giant doesn't attack again. He sways back and forth on his hands and feet, growling and moaning like an injured animal.

"You can't hide from me. I'm a man who finishes what he starts," he pants, before bounding down the street and away.

Steve lets go of the breath he was holding, but there's no relief for him yet, not while Tony's lying motionless there on the ground, shrouded in smoke. Steve's by his side in a flash. _Please be alive. Please be alive._ "Tony!" He calls, " _Tony_!"

Tony doesn't move. The reactor spits and flickers like a dying star. Oh, god, this can't be it. Steve feels the first wash of tears prickling at his eyes. _Tony, you liar, you promised me you wouldn't die._

It was stupid of Steve to assume he could run away. To assume he could escape the awful, visceral, crushingly familiar pain of loss by leaving Tony before Tony could leave him. He should've known it wouldn't work, because he and Tony always find their way back to each other in the end. No matter how hard they try and how far they go, they always come crashing together again like ancient doomed planets somewhere out in space, far from the light of the stars. Tony found him today, fought with him, and fell back into his gravity, and now he's dying on him and Steve can't do this. He just can't. He thinks his heart might just decide to quit beating at the same time Tony's stops, because for all the incredibly fucked up things Tony's done, Steve's not ready to live in a world without him.

At least Tony isn't dying a villain. At least Steve can tell the world Iron Man went down trying to defend an innocent. It's a little stab of pride through his shattered, keening heart, but it's not enough to dry his eyes.

Steve gazes down at the empty faceplate. It jerks and vibrates and makes a hollow sound like a death rattle. There's a high-pitched hum and a buzz of static, and then—can it be?—a weak, distorted voice.

"The fuck are you waiting for? Go after him," Tony gasps out.

Oh, god. Oh, thank god, he's alive. Steve cries out in relief. There's no fighting back the tears now. They flow freely down his face and splash onto the armor, boiling off on contact with the hot metal. "You're nuts if you think I'm going to leave you here like this," Steve chokes out.

"Funny," Tony replies haltingly, "you didn't have a problem leaving me back at the tower."

"For god's sake, stop talking," Steve sobs, "you almost died. You almost _died_." He pulls off his gloves and wipes his hand across his face.

"I'm on my way," Tony mumbles, "reactor's failing. Hot in here. Hurts." His sentences are getting shorter, his voice drifting away.

Shit. Shit, shit. "Get out of the suit," Steve orders, "now!"

"Can't. No power. Metal's fused." The joints whine and creak as they try to separate, as if to prove his point. He's trapped in his own glorious invention like a coffin. "Get me power," he says, "fast."

Steve glances around frantically. The mains aren't an option, since his stunt with the cables knocked out the power for the entire block. He looks at the cars lining the street. Most of them have been smashed to scrap, but there are a few that look intact enough. "Will a car battery work?" He asks.

"I don't like car batteries," Tony wheezes, "but it'll work. Get two."

That's all Steve needs. He rips the hood off the nearest car like it's made of paper, finds the battery, and quickly pulls it free. It takes a few more cars before he can salvage another usable battery. He's probably committing a felony here; he doesn't particularly care.

"What do I do," he says, setting the batteries down by Tony's side.

"Reactor casing," Tony huffs, "unlocks with your prints. Thumb on the glass."

 _When did you record my fingerprints?_ Steve thinks, placing his thumb on the window covering Tony's chest reactor. The glass has gone warped and cloudy, and the whole suit is burning hot to the touch. Blisters erupt all over Steve's fingers. They start healing right away. If the outside of the suit's this hot, the inside must be even worse. He has to work fast.

This is the first time he's ever touched Tony's arc reactor, he realizes. He's always been careful not to put his hands too close to it. It's no surprise Tony's so desperately protective of his power source—why wouldn't be be, after Obadiah Stane tried to steal it right out of his chest? After General Ross used it to torture him, poison his mind, and drive him to the edge of madness? It's a cage for his heart, a fragment of the dark cave that birthed it, a cross for Tony to carry wherever he goes. An echo of captivity.

But what if that's not all it means?

For Steve, the arc reactor's a light in the dark. It doesn't always lead to safe places, but it always leads, and he follows. It's the victory that dwells in Tony, the limitless potential to overcome, the frightening force that lives and breathes in him and all he does. Steve's learned in recent days just how far Tony's willing to go for his twisted ideal of justice. Whether it's further than his inner strength will take him, Steve can't say.

The cover unlatches with a soft metallic _click_. Steve tries to pull it away, but it's melted to the suit's breastplate. He winces at Tony's hiss of pain. "Relax," says Steve, "relax. Almost there." He bends the metal carefully with his fingers. It comes clear of the armor, exposing the main body of the reactor underneath. "Okay. Now what?"

"Catches. Three and nine o'clock. Pinch and turn."

The catches spring open under Steve's touch. He's trying hard to keep his hands from shaking.

"Now six and twelve," says Tony.

This time the catches don't respond. The one at twelve o'clock is misshapen and burnt black. "It's stuck," says Steve, "heat damage."

"Yeah, I can feel it. Fuck. You'll have to—you'll have to brute force it." Tony's breath comes in ragged hitches, each one louder and more labored than the last.

Steve stares. Brute force and the device that keeps Tony alive are two things that don't belong in the same sentence. But what other choice does he have? He eases a finger into the gap behind the catch and tries to work it free, but it's stuck tight. The reactor exudes rhythmic drafts of warm, moist air into the gap. Steve's inside Tony's body in a way he's never been before. His hands are going clammy. This isn't working.

He checks his back pocket—yes, his pocketknife's still there. Steve flicks the blade out and sets the point down on the small bridge of molten metal fusing the catch to the rest of the assembly. He steadies his hands.

"Is that a knife?" Tony murmurs feverishly.

"Take a deep breath," Steve replies.

"I can't," Tony starts to say, and lets out a wet, metallic gasp as Steve swiftly drives the heel of his palm into the handle of the knife. The metal gives easily. The catch is free. Tony descends into a painful-sounding coughing fit.

"Hey," says Steve, "don't go anywhere. I've released the catches. What do I do next?"

The helmet jerks to the right like it's trying to look at him. "Pull," says Tony faintly, "slowly. Not too far."

Steve has the main body of the reactor in his hands now. His fingers are trembling harder than they ever have before. The blue light flutters, desperate and panicked, like a butterfly with a broken wing. A wire connects the reactor to the curved inner walls lining the cavity in Tony's chest. Steve envisions his ribs, lungs, and heart lying just beyond the startling volume of flesh that should be there but isn't. The rest of Tony's body is covered in bombproof armor, but he's laid his heart bare here under Steve's hands, at his mercy.

Even now, Tony trusts Steve with his life. Steve only wishes he could find it in himself to trust him back.

"Turn it over. Ports in the back," Tony instructs. "Black in black, red in red—" he cuts off with a choking sound as Steve plugs the jumper cables in. The arc reactor's light goes dead and Tony makes a moaning, gurgling noise. Steve feels a flash of dread. Did he screw something up?

The core flares to life again and Steve breathes a sigh of relief. The light's far from the steady glow he's used to, but at least the flickering has calmed. "It worked," says Tony, his mechanical voice coming through a little stronger and clearer now. "Plug in the next one."

Even through the helmet, Steve can hear Tony's breaths like a rush of wind. He's forcing the air in through his nose and out through his mouth, rhythmically, methodically, like he's fighting to stay calm in the face of an overwhelming wave of fear. "You're fine," Steve tells him, "keep breathing. You're fine."

The reactor glows brighter as it drains the second battery. Steve places it gently back in its sconce. Nothing seems to happen at first; it takes a while for Steve to notice the armor starting to swim. Metal flows away from the ruined joints, spreading across Tony's body and subsuming its own burnt and melted surfaces into a featureless human-shaped ocean of red and gold. It's a mesmerizing sight. It looks almost _alive_. Distinct pieces of armor begin to emerge from the liquid, and in a matter of minutes the suit's completely renewed, leaving no memory of the smoldering wreckage of itself that it devoured.

The front of the suit retracts and Tony rolls and stumbles out. Steve instinctively reaches out to catch him. He's hot to the touch, red-faced and sweating, bloodied and bruised. His clothes are smoking and there's a distant, dark glaze to his eyes. He opens his mouth and gasps deeply, hungrily, like this is the first air he's breathed in days.

Steve feels Tony's weight, limp and weak and panting in his arms, and it occurs to him that he could scoop him up and haul him back to SHIELD right now. He could. He _should_. Tony will say no, of course, but Steve doesn't know how much stock he should put in 'no' when what 'no' really means is 'I don't care what happens to me anymore'. It's the best move Steve can make here, even if Tony ends up hating him for it. His muscles tense up as he gets ready to bolt. His right hand curls around Tony's shoulder.

And Tony just lies there, his scarred chest heaving up and down, his face ravaged and weeping, his brown eyes full of trust as his thousand-yard gaze reels back in and comes to rest on Steve.

And Steve wavers.

The fate of the country—maybe the world—rests on this moment, and he just. He can't. He can't do it. Tony's been a prisoner too many times in his life. Steve's not going to betray him now, not when he's totally defenseless like this. Soon they'll fall into each other's orbit again, and either Tony will go with him freely or Steve will battle him on level ground. At least that way both of them will feel like they've earned it.

For today, there's no saving Tony if he won't accept salvation. The tension runs out of Steve's hand like tepid water.

He won't bring Tony in against his will, but he's not about to leave him out here with the wolves either. "Can you stand up?" Steve asks.

"Yeah," Tony answers, "the suit's good as new."

Which wasn't what Steve was asking, but okay. "Where does it hurt," he asks.

Tony doesn't answer right away. He passes a hand down his ribcage and stops abruptly with a groan. "There. Shit."

A broken rib. Not good, but the suit will carry him. "We have to leave," says Steve. "People know you're here, and a lot of them want to kill you."

Tony reaches out and brushes a finger against the rim of the shield. "I'm going to need this back."

Steve sets the shield down on the ground. Tony lies back in the open shell of the armor, which folds and locks around him. The actuators strain and whine as they haul him to his feet. Tony closes his eyes and concentrates, and the shield slowly hovers in the air and distends into web-like strings, weaving itself around his waist and solidifying again. The armor looks right now. Whole.

"Come with me," Tony says urgently, holding out his hand. _Kill with me_ is what he means. _Lay waste to the world with me._

Steve's not ready to walk that path, not while there's still hope for a better way. He repeats his offer from before. "Come to SHIELD," he implores. "The red titan almost killed you, and I know you don't care about that, but fuck, Tony, _I_ care. Let me help you, for god's sake."

"'The Red Titan'," Tony repeats, "I like that. Or, you know, just 'The Titan'. It's got a better ring to it than 'Big Red'."

" _Tony_."

Tony sighs and shuts his faceplate. "I'll deal with him. I'll fix this."

"You won't last out here on your own," says Steve, "you can't change things on your own."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not alone," Tony replies. The helmet's eye slits flash with defiance. "I told you _no_ , Steve. I see where you're coming from, but the thing is," he says, lowering his voice, "I don't need saving. I don't need fixing. _I'm not broken._ Here's an idea—you run back to your buddies at SHIELD now and call me when you're ready to believe in me again."

The suit begins to shimmer like the moon on rough seas. It fades away piece by piece until all that remains is a smooth, shining outline against the roads and the burning city beyond. Steve stares at him—through him—with his mouth a little open, unable to speak a word. Within seconds, Tony disappears completely. The only sign he's truly gone is the soft, almost imperceptible sound of repulsors activating and vortices of air rushing in to fill the space he leaves behind.


	33. No More Heroes

"You _idiot_ ," Pepper fumes. She looks like she wants to punch him. Tony thinks if she gets any angrier, she might actually hulk out. "Do you even understand what 'on the run' means? Are you trying to get yourself killed out there?"

Tony cringes. "How about a little sympathy for the guy with two fractured ribs?"

"I think it's three fractured ribs," says Maya, prodding gingerly at his chest. "This looks bad. I'm not a real doctor, Tony. You need someone who actually knows what they're doing."

"I had Steve," Tony groans. _Had him, and lost him_. He's fresh from the firefight, battered and bruised, skin blooming red with the memory of heat, acrid fumes still lingering in his nostrils. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to exist. How the fuck did that fight go so wrong? How could he let that mutant die, let Steve walk away from him for what might well be the last time? Tony's doing his best to keep it together, but it's taking everything he has not to shake and sweat and shiver and cry and throw up all over the carpet.

Maya's still tallying up the damage to his body. There's too much carbon dioxide in his blood. It's washing right through his feeble heart, which has all but given up on pumping to cower away from the shrapnel worming ever closer to its soft, yielding walls. He'd be dead by now if it weren't for Steve, and in his miserable state Tony finds himself missing his Captain's healing hands more than ever.

Pepper's not done laying into him. She wouldn't if she knew how the battle really ended, or how hollowed out and heavy and wall-eyed Tony really feels. But he's not going to tell her; better she be angry than afraid. He needs Pepper and Maya and everyone else to keep believing in him and his strength. He can't allow their faith to waver. He's not going to let them down.

"What if you were followed," Pepper snaps. "This is a suburban home with a yard and an apple tree, not some fortress with robots and lasers! It's security through obscurity, that's all it is. If they find you, if they find this place, it's all over."

"I'm invisible in stealth mode," Tony protests, "to laser, sonar, radar, everything. It's like I don't exist."

Pepper sighs. "That's not the point. Do you have any idea how much danger you're in? You'll have to keep a low profile if you want to stay alive. You can't just show up at a riot and, and—and hand out summary executions to civilians!"

"No one would have punished them," says Tony quietly. "I won't let killers of innocents walk free."

"Sure," says Pepper, "that's a great ideal. A noble ideal. But it's stupid to compromise your cover for an _ideal_."

"I took a stand. Someone has to," Tony mutters.

Maya starts clearing up the empty iodine bottles and bandage wrappers. "Someone is," she says, "Matt Murdock."

Tony scoffs. "Matt Murdock's all talk and no action. What's the use of speeches and videos when superhumans are being rounded up and beaten to death in the streets? What's the point of talking about human rights when they've already decided we _aren't_ human? It's been less than a year since the Chitauri and they've already forgotten—" he stops to cough and gasp for air.

"Sit down. Your lungs are going to explode," Maya says.

It sure feels that way. Tony throws back a glug of water and continues. "They think they don't need us, but they're wrong. I'm going to prove it. I'm going to take down the Titan."

A look of consternation crosses Maya's face. "What? No. You're going to Miami to take out Aldrich Killian. That's the plan." She taps a finger against the dining table, where they've been assembling intel.

"Killian can wait," Tony replies, "this guy's a public danger. He's a wrecking ball on two giant red legs. What better target to win me back my heroic reputation?" And he means what he says, but he neglects to mention the fire of guilt and fear that's raging inside him, stoked by the echoes of the angel's dying screams. Tony failed today, and it's made him afraid. He's still trapped that moment of terror when he realized his armor was no match for the Titan's power. It wasn't strong enough to protect him. It wasn't enough— _he_ wasn't enough. He's _weak_ , and it's burning him up. He'll burn forever if he doesn't kill the Titan as soon as he can.

"Tony," says Pepper, in the voice she uses when she's about to say something eminently reasonable that Tony won't want to hear. "How exactly do you expect to kill him? His healing factor makes him practically invincible. I'm watching you and Steve fight him on TV right now, and you're barely putting a dent in him."

Tony turns his head to look over at their array of screens and immediately regrets it. Every channel is showing the battle on loop, and they're all a few seconds out of sync with each other. It's nauseating. He rubs his thumbs on his temples and swallows.

This won't be a solo mission, he knows that. He needs Bruce's and Thor's power at the very least, but he's seen what the Titan can do and he doesn't want to call his friends out of hiding and ask them to put themselves in that kind of danger. Not yet, anyway. Not without a plan.

Maya notices something on the video array. "Wait a second," she says, "what's happening here?" She goes to one of the smaller monitors, a tablet that's set up to display the footage from the built-in camera in Tony's helmet. She hits pause and brings the tablet over, rewinding the video back to a frame of the Titan's anguished face.

"Let me see." Tony takes the tablet and turns the volume up. "That was—yeah, that was when I told him he was one of us and he, I don't know. He had a breakdown or something. It's like he forgot he was a super until I reminded him, and he couldn't handle it, and it shorted out his brain." Now that Tony thinks about it, a similar thing happens in his own brain whenever someone unexpectedly brings up nuclear warheads and portals to outer space. If there were a way to weaponize that feeling, that sick, swirling emptiness...Tony scrubs the footage back and forth, and ruminates. The Titan called them a _plague_. He hates what he is, and Tony thinks he can use that against him. Yes—he's got the beast in his sights now. "A psionic attack could do him in," he says.

"You're not an empath," Maya points out.

"No," Tony agrees, "but I bet I can find one in Hell's Kitchen." A superhuman enclave has sprung up between 47th and 59th, with powered people from across the state flocking there for safe haven. It's guarded by people with super strength, energy powers, and telekinesis. Crime rates in the area have taken a plunge. "Someone there might know something about the Titan, too," Tony adds.

"You're getting ahead of yourself," says Pepper. "What if you find someone who'll fight with you, and it turns out your hunch is wrong? You can fly away, but your new psychic friend will be barbecued."

Tony winces. She's right. He has to stop. He has to _think_ , but his mind's a thick fog. Embers and ash. His body, too, is a knot of pain, the kind of pain that floods every fiber of your being and makes you want to sleep for days, or maybe for the rest of your life. The arc reactor pulses and tugs at the muscles in his chest. It was supposed to save his life, and today it almost killed him. _Get it out, get it out_.

"You won't get very far in Hell's Kitchen anyway," Maya says, her eyes downcast and grim. "The police did a sweep this morning and rounded up about fifty people. They tried to keep it quiet, but Christine Everhart broke the news. It looks like the place has been cleaned out."

Well, shit. There goes that idea. There go more of his kind to the prison camps and the black bags. Steve would say the whole situation is Tony's fault. He doesn't understand, and Tony doesn't know how to make him. Sure, he's always been easy to manipulate, but this is something else entirely. Tony _cares_ about Steve. Steve was the best fucking thing that ever happened to him, and now—now he's gone and he's never coming back.

It's not like Tony to pine and ache like this. An empty bed's easy to fill, after all. Throw a party, pay for drinks and pills, choose someone new to use once and destroy. That was his plan for Steve, too, but he was like a bruise that just refused to fade, and before they knew it they had become hopelessly addicted to each other. Love's not something that comes easy to Tony, and Steve was the one who proved to him that it was _worth_ it. He was the glue that held the team together, too. Without Steve, Tony doubts anyone would have cared enough about him to rescue him from his miserable hallucinations down in that white-walled bunker.

He had everything when he had Steve, even the things he never knew he wanted. He had it all, and he let it slip through his fingers.

Tony stares glumly at the TV screens, watching himself flying and falling and firing uselessly on the Titan over and over again. The whole country is losing its collective shit over the battle, the angel, Tony's reemergence, everything. Someone's quoting scripture and raving about the devil and the end times. Witnesses on the scene saw the Titan retreating into the woods after the battle; there's aerial footage of a swath of trees burned to cinders, forming a trail that leads deeper and deeper into the forest until it just...stops. He vanished without a trace. The search parties and choppers have turned up nothing.

There are so many unanswered questions, so many levels of _what the fuck_ surrounding this guy. Where did he come from? How does he stay hidden? A new supervillain's no surprise in and of itself; in Tony's life, it's almost routine. Not everyone with powers is going to use them for good. Cities around the world have been swept up in a wave of superpowered crime—speedster thieves, shapeshifting scammers—but this is different. This guy doesn't want money, petty revenge, or world domination. It almost seems like he kills for _sport_. It doesn't make any sense. _Why,_ Tony wonders. _He's one of us. Why does he hate us? Why is he killing us?_

Late that night, Betty calls with an answer.

“It’s him. It’s the General,” she says, sounding like she can’t quite believe it herself.

Tony feels a crawling numbness overtaking him. “What? It can’t be,” he says, adding dumbly, “I killed him.”

“I know,” she says, voice hushed but certain. “It defies every law of science. It shouldn’t be possible. But it's him, I'm sure of it. I know he looks different, and I know he’s dead, but I’d recognize him anywhere. That monster was— _is_ —my father."

Tony just stands there, stunned and trembling, and waits for her words to sink in. It’s starting to click into place now, the rage he saw today, the seething froth of hate, the single-minded determination. What was it the Titan said? _I'm a man who finishes what he starts._

Fuck. It's Ross, all right. It can't be anyone else. A lump of pure dread forms in Tony's throat and reaches down with long, hairy fingers to stroke at his heart. _No, no, I killed you, I watched you die. There's no way._ His chest clenches around his arc reactor as the scarred skin on his back tightens at the touch of an invisible cane. The rising edge of panic sends reality spinning and shrinking away from him down a dark tunnel. It's getting hard to breathe. The shackles are cold on his wrists—

Tony puts the phone down and stares at his hands. No shackles, no spiders. He has to fight this feeling. _It's not real. I'm not there, it's not real. It's only in my head._ He exhales sharply, trying to anchor himself in the solidus of things he can see and sense. Oak chair. Expensive rug. Picture window, curtains closed. Pepper and Maya talking softly in the next room. _Real_.

He thought he was done with Ross, done with this torment, this madness. What he won't admit to anyone, not even to himself, is that he never truly escaped from him, and maybe he never will. Just like he never escaped Afghanistan and Manhattan and Howard and all the other specters that linger at the edge of consciousness sharpening their claws and chittering dangerous, diaphanous nonsense. Ross has returned, and he's stronger and angrier than ever. Tony could kill him a hundred times and there'd still be no way out.

"Tony?" Betty asks cautiously, "hello? Are you still there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here," he rasps. "I just...how is it possible? He was dead, he was _very_ dead, and now he's...not. That's not a thing that's supposed to happen."

"That's what Bruce and I have been trying to figure out, but we don't even know where to start. It could be literally anything—a chemical agent, high-energy gamma rays or some kind of exotic radiation, or even an advanced form of nanotechnology we've never seen before." She hesitates before adding, "if it's gamma rays, there _is_ some precedent."

"The Hulk," says Tony.

"Yes. I think the General has the ability to transform, too. That's how he disappeared so easily in the woods. He was an expert in wilderness survival in the army; if any of those memories are still intact, it'll be next to impossible to find him."

"Intact? What do you mean?" Tony asks.

"Well, memories are just networks of connected neurons, aren't they? When the body dies, the impulses and potentials in the brain drop to zero, which means there's nothing left to sustain the connections. In theory, that means the memories should evaporate," Betty explains.

"So that's why he didn't recognize me," Tony murmurs. "But wait, he said—he said he'd finish what he started. He remembers his mission. He remembers how much he hates us and wants to exterminate us."

Betty hums. "That makes sense. Memories form more persistent physical pathways in the brain when they're associated with strong emotions, and anger—that's one emotion my father always had more of than he knew what to do with," she says sadly. "He had so much anger, it ended up outliving him. And maybe that's the only part of his mind that's still there. He's driven to kill, but he can't remember why or how or even who."

"So he just went after the first powered guy he came across," Tony surmises. The angel was in the wrong place at the wrong time, slaughtered by random chance. That makes it even worse somehow. Tony shudders. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Betty breathes.

"Is Bruce there? Can we get him on this call?" Tony asks.

"Afraid not," says Betty, "not right now. We had a fight and he walked out. He thinks I drink too much." Tony swears he hears her roll her eyes.

"He left you by yourself? Where'd he go?"

"I don't know. But he'll be back," Betty says quickly, "it'll be fine. It's just the stress getting to him—he's worried about you."

Tony huffs. "He should worry about himself. If he doesn't turn up soon, call me again and I'll come take you back to the safe house here. And then I'll find Bruce and hit him until he apologizes to you."

Betty chuckles. "Thanks, Tony," she says, before her tone turns serious again. "Be careful out there, okay? My father, whatever he is now, is dangerous enough on his own, but don't overlook the people who brought him back, either. They're an unknown variable. Whoever they are, they have technology far beyond what we thought was even theoretically possible."

"I'll figure it out," Tony says. He always does. "Stay safe, Betty. And...I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry this happened."

She pauses. "But you're not sorry for killing him in the first place?"

He's not going to lie. "No."

"Good. You shouldn't be," she says evenly, "next time, let's hope it sticks."

The night is warm. Tony doesn't sleep. He sees Ross's hideous grinning face every time he closes his eyes. On and on into the night they stutter, just him and his fevered thoughts: _you had no right to forget me. You can't walk away from what you did. I'll make you remember my face, you bastard. I'll cage you, I'll break you, I'll show you fear._

This house, with its sealed doors and windows, hides him from light. He doesn't know it's morning until JARVIS makes a noise that pulls him out of his bleary-eyed delirium.

"Master Stark?" The voice comes not from the ceiling but from a tinny laptop speaker. It's a computer from Tony's scrap heap that he dug out and worked on that night in the server room, and now it ferries JARVIS over from the tower's mainframe whenever Tony needs him. Most of his features are offline in this mode. He's blind and deaf in there, crowded up against the walls, but it can't be helped. It's a lucky thing claustrophobia isn't one of his emergent traits.

"What is it, J?" Says Tony.

"As per your orders, sir, I've been blocking and filtering all traffic on your unsecured communication lines. James Rhodes is calling your phone at the tower. Will you speak to him?"

Rhodey? This can't be good news. After the Act passed, he fell in line like a good little lapdog and aligned himself publicly and squarely with the government. It's probably not a double bluff. They’ve got him holding press conferences, making statements about defending national security against powered rogue elements and promising to hunt down Tony Stark, the dangerous, power-crazed terrorist. Rhodey’s on a tighter leash than ever before. He didn’t have a choice in any of this. Tony knows that, but he still can’t help feeling a little betrayed.

"Patch him through," he instructs JARVIS, "audio only. Don't give him a visual." His senses are sharpening. He's alert now, and on guard.

The line crackles. "Tony? Are you there?"

“How’s that fresh coat of paint treating you, Iron Patriot?” Tony asks.

Rhodey bristles. At least, Tony imagines he does. “That was _not_ my idea,” he says.

“What, the name or the color scheme?”

“Neither! It was—“ Rhodey cuts himself off with an exasperated grunt. “Tony, where are you?”

“I’m afraid you’re not cleared for that information. And if you have someone there with you trying to trace this call, tell them not to waste their time. It won't work," says Tony.

"No one's tracing anything. Tony, we need to talk. I want to help you." His tone is placating, confident.

"For fuck's sake," Tony mutters, "you commit _one_ perfectly justifiable murder and suddenly everyone wants you to come to Jesus."

"Last time I checked, it was a lot more than one," Rhodey says.

"Oh," says Tony flatly, "you're counting those guys from the lynch mob."

"And the funeral at Arlington."

"I didn't—" Tony stops short. What's the use of protesting his innocence now?

“This has to stop,” says Rhodey firmly, “that suit doesn’t give you the right to kill whoever you want.”

 _This isn’t what I want._ But blood calls for blood, and there’s always a price, and a price, and a price. “What are you going to do about it?” Tony taunts.

“Anything I need to,” Rhodey replies levelly. “Anything I’m ordered to. But it doesn't have to come to that.”

“Glad we're on the same page. Now tell your bosses to tell _their_ bosses to quit trying to kill me, and we'll forget this whole thing ever happened,” Tony says.

Rhodey sighs. “It's not that easy, Tony. There's going to be a trial. Superhero or not, you take someone's life, you've got to answer for it.”

“That's rich coming from a guy who guns people down for a living.”

“Even richer coming from the guy who made millions off the guns.”

“Billions,” Tony corrects, “and I’m not the same person I used to be.”

“No,” Rhodey acknowledges, “that thing in your chest has changed you.”

“More than you'll ever know.”

“And I always thought it was for the better, but lately you've been doing a fine job of proving me wrong,” says Rhodey. “And after Afghanistan, I thought you were done letting innocent people get hurt because of you. Am I wrong about that too?”

“I’ll stop them,” Tony says, “you'll see.”

“Yeah? How?” Rhodey demands. Tony can almost hear the sound of his jaw clenching. “You're going to murder your way across the country until everyone who wants you dead is dead?”

“Well, sure, that's _one_ way.”

“Surrender,” Rhodey pleads, “just put up your hands, and all of this will be over. I think you want it to be over too, and I know you still have it in you to do the right thing. Surrender and you’ll save your own life, and everyone else’s, too.”

And there it is again, that final appeal to Tony's compassion, to the drumbeat of that hero's heart of his, that metal heart of his, his artifice. Where's he heard that one before? "Have you and Steve been comparing notes?"

"Steve? Steve Rogers?" Rhodey asks, "are you in contact with him? Where is he?"

"What do you want with him?" Tony asks sharply, with a spike of aggression he wasn't anticipating.

Rhodey sounds hurt. "Tony, come on. You're talking to me like I'm your enemy. I just want to help. You've crossed a line, and I'm offering you safe passage back. It’s not too late to turn yourself in.”

“I’ll get a bullet in the head as soon as I’m in range, and you know that,” Tony says.

“Not if I can help it,” says Rhodey urgently. “Listen, if you can't come to Edwards, tell me where you are and I'll come get you. I'll guarantee your safety all the way to the trial. And I can pull some strings, try to get you a lenient sentence.”

Who does he think he’s kidding? Tony wants to laugh. Instead, he makes a counteroffer. “And I can get you out of that clown suit and make you War Machine again, get you back to doing what you do best and fighting battles that matter, if you blow off the Air Force and join me instead."

There's a significant silence from Rhodey's end of the line.

“You want to help me end this, don't you?” Tony presses.

It’s a while before Rhodey says anything. “Tony, I’m going to ask you one more time, not as Air Force Colonel James Rhodes, but as Rhodey, your oldest friend. And for a long time, your only friend. I care about you. I’m worried about you. Please.”

Tony's overcome by a profound sadness as the realization hits him: this is it. It's the end for them and their decades of friendship, because if they can't see eye to eye on this then they're bound to destroy each other. This fight's taken so much from him, and it'll keep taking and taking until he has nothing left to give. "You've made your choice," he says quietly, "don’t look for me, Rhodey. I don’t want to have to fight you."

He terminates the connection.

Tony spends the next few days taking apart all three of his suits and putting them back together again. He does this dozens of times, repeating the same steps over and over until his hands ache and his vision blurs. He's been tinkering with the composition of the metal alloy to try to improve its heat resistance, but he doesn't have a workshop here in the safe house, only a bench in the basement and a handful of tools. There's only so much he can do without the bots, a forge, and a firing range. Mostly he's just trying to drown out the shrieking in his head and the terror in his heart, but nothing works. The fear doesn't leave him; it only grows stronger as the hours pass.

He tries music. Classical, metal, trance, show tunes, he tries everything. He has to keep the volume down to avoid alerting the neighbors, though, and it doesn't feel the same without the sound resonating in his bones. Eventually he settles for the drone of news radio.

People have been looking for the Titan—Ross—for days, but no one's found a trace of him. It's like Betty said: he remembers how to disappear. The police have established a presence in Hell’s Kitchen again, but they must have missed a superhuman or two because someone keeps beating up criminals and leaving them tied up for the authorities to find. The UN's making angry noises about human rights and the Control of Powered Humans act, and other countries are suspicious about why there are magnitudes more powered people in the US than anywhere else. Some are claiming it's a decades-long secret genetic engineering conspiracy and pinning it on various parties from the CIA to the Illuminati to some shady group called 'Weapon X'.

No one actually knows where all these superhumans came from, least of all Tony, but he knows he can't let the government take them away and lock them up like animals. If this had happened maybe a year ago, he wouldn’t have cared. Why bother? No one could touch him up in his high tower with his armor and his wealth. But then the Avengers happened. Steve happened. _Ross_ happened. Tony’s been in ‘indefinite detention’, he’s lived the ugly, piss-soaked reality behind those seemingly harmless words, and he doesn’t want to let anyone else suffer like he did. And sure, things would be easier for him now if he’d just shut up and stayed out of the way instead of exposing Ross's plans and starting a war, but if there’s one thing Steve’s taught him, it’s that you don’t turn away when people need you.

Sometimes, though, you fail and you let them down, and their dying screams follow you everywhere you go.

Tony hears his name on the radio and stiffens. His body's tense as a coiled spring, veins buzzing with caffeine and muscles knotted from hours of metalworking. He turns up the volume and listens anxiously.

"To finance: the federal government reports they have seized the assets of billionaire Tony Stark, also known as Iron Man." Well, that's just great. Good thing he withdrew all that cash before. "His energy company Stark Industries is unaffected, but has been struggling financially in the wake of Stark's shocking crimes. With current CEO Virginia Potts on extended leave, many shareholders have lost faith in the company's future prospects. Meanwhile, the government's manhunt for former superhero turned wanted fugitive Stark continues as—"

Tony's mood sours. He flings the speaker against the wall. _Former superhero?_ Former _superhero? Fuck you, I saved your fucking planet. You don't get to take that away from me._ It's times like these he starts to think maybe Steve's goodness and light have led him astray. Maybe he should stop caring so much. Maybe he should have let Loki and his Chitauri army have Earth. At least that way everyone would all be in the same shitty boat.

With a sigh, he sets down the armor piece he's been working on. It reflects the blue glow from his chest like a mirror. There are screams coming from inside that flesh-lined hole; they're getting louder every night, echoes from the battle and the torture chamber ringing endlessly through his body. _The seat of your power is your weakest point._ It was Ross, it was Ross all along, and hell, maybe Tony's abused heart knew that the whole time. It's suffered enough at his hands to recognize his touch, to quiver and burn in the memory.

But Tony's tired of being afraid. The reactor makes him vulnerable, and his heart wants it _out_. The shrapnel too, ideally. That's the third body that makes this problem intractable. And even if he solves it, even if he survives it, how's he going to fill that hole at the core of his being? What's he going to do without that weight to keep him down? What is he without his power—and what is he without his pain?

When he surfaces from his makeshift workshop to tell Maya about Ross, she's adamant it's impossible. "Biology doesn't work that way," she keeps saying. Tony thinks she's insulted someone else figured out resurrection before she did. Exactly _who_ is an open question. Who has that kind of technology, and who would use it to turn Ross into the thing he hated most?

It could be military tech, Tony thinks. They _are_ big fans of human experimentation. Steve wasn't the first, and he's far from the last. This could be an attempt at some kind of pyrokinetic super serum, something they developed and kept under wraps at the the gamma ray lab where Bruce had the accident that started it all. That would imply an inside job at Arlington, a false flag attack to set Tony up and fan the flames of the coming war. The attackers were precise and professional—black ops soldiers, maybe. But the collateral damage was massive. Would the army really kill so many of their own to pull a stunt like this? Did they expect to get back the same Ross they'd lost, or did they know they were turning him into a monster with power beyond imagining? Maybe they thought they could control him, or that he could control himself. Pretty stupid thing to assume, given what happened to Bruce and Emil Blonsky.

Or.

Tony shudders. Maybe they knew what would happen. Maybe they created the Titan on purpose and unleashed him to hunt down and kill every superhuman he could find. Even if he failed, they'd get something out of the deal. He's an uncontrollable monster on the loose, a walking, firebreathing advertisement for superhuman extermination, and once the army caught him they'd get a huge boost of public support. It's a disturbingly efficient and ruthless plan. It's exactly the kind of plan Ross himself would think up. Of course someone would try to kill him eventually. Of course he'd plan for the contingency of someone actually succeeding. Of course he'd make a last-ditch effort and give everything to continue his stupid jackass mission to rid the world of superheroes and preserve the balance of power.

Tony's head spins. It makes so much sense, but at the same time some things just don't add up. One thing's for sure, though: whoever's really behind the bombing, they're dangerous. They have access to some incredible biotechnology. And they knew exactly when to strike, and that Tony would take the fall for it.

Oh, holy shit. Whoever attacked the funeral stole the body and created the Titan—that means the existence of the Titan itself is proof that Tony didn't do it. The logic is obvious. How'd it take him this long to figure it out? Since the protest and the fight he's been so dazed and confused, flailing snowblind down the side of the mountain. He may have further to fall yet, but for now he's found a lifeline.

He calls Steve. (For someone who's supposedly on the run, Tony's sure spending a lot of time on the phone.)

To his surprise, Steve picks up. "Tony?" He asks hesitantly.

"Steve, I didn't do it. It wasn't me," Tony babbles excitedly.

"What wasn't you?" Steve sounds confused.

"Arlington. The bombing at the funeral," Tony replies. "Listen to me, Steve. The Titan—he's Ross."

A long silence follows.

"Ross is dead," Steve says slowly.

"And someone stole his body and brought him back as a giant red rage zombie," Tony replies. "I think it was the army, an inside job. I can't be sure. But whoever it was, it wasn't me. I may be a godlike genius, but I can't bring people back from the dead. And if I could, my first choice would _not_ be Thaddeus Ross. When I kill people, I expect them to stay dead."

"You...you didn't do it," Steve realizes, "oh, god."

He goes quiet. Tony waits. He waits a while longer before asking, "Steve? You still there?"

"I'm trying to remember the look in his eyes," Steve replies. "They were...yellow. Angry."

"In undeath as in life," Tony says, and again Steve says nothing. Why the hell isn't he more excited about this? Why isn't he apologizing for being wrong and declaring he'll ditch SHIELD and come back to stand by Tony's side?

Oh, right.

Because Steve doesn't love him anymore.

And Tony's not naïve enough to expect this to change Steve's mind. Not after the way they've fought and the things they've said to each other. "I know you hate me," he whispers, "you think I'm crazy and you're mad about all those times I lied to you. But I—I just want you to know I didn't lie about this. Those deaths from Arlington aren't on my hands. I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it."

"But you still think it's up to you decide who deserves it," says Steve, sounding crestfallen. "Please, Tony. Let me help. SHIELD wants to end this madness with the government and the Act as much as you do, but this is a battle we have to fight with words and deeds, in the Senate and the courts, on paper and on the airwaves. Not out on the streets with fire and blood."

Tony almost wants to cry with frustration. So close and yet so far. "People are dying horribly and being locked up in fucking _prison camps_ ," he says through gritted teeth. "Time is running out on us, and the enemy's everywhere. You can't play the long game if you don't live long enough to make your move."

Steve's voice wavers brokenly as he replies, "you won't live very long anyway, the way you're going."

Is this capitulation, or some dim illusion of hope? "Then fight with me," Tony urges him, "protect me, shield me the way you always have."

"Be a team again, you mean," Steve murmurs, "together again. I—I want that too, Tony. I want to go back to the way things were. But you have to stop this."

Stop now, and let the hunters close in? Tony doesn't think so. The singularity has come and gone and he's down, down, deep in his gravity well. "I can't promise anything."

"Then neither can I," Steve says, and hangs up.

Despondent, Tony returns to drowning himself in work and loses track of time again until Pepper comes down to look for him. A faint scent of apple blossoms wafts in on the fresh air that billows in from upstairs when she opens the basement door. She hauls him into the kitchen and puts a grocery bag full of sandwiches on the counter in front of him, because apparently he hasn't eaten in two days (and he still doesn't like being handed things). It's heartwarming how deeply Pepper cares about him. His heart’s so warm it’s cooking like a steak in a sous-vide.

Maya appears at the door with more bags in her arms, and Pepper goes over to help. "Thanks for doing the supply run," she says. "I know it's a pain, but my face is too recognizable, and Tony, well."

"It's fine, I don't mind," Maya replies, brushing Pepper's cheek with a soft, shy smile of a kiss. Wait, are they—? How? Why? Has Tony been in the basement _that_ long? Oh, hell, never mind. He has other things to worry about. Besides, Pepper deserves to be happy, and when the day is dark you’ll take the sunshine any way you can get it.

Maya settles back in at the AIM recon table, and before long she's elbow-deep in papers, maps, and blueprints again. "How are the armor improvements going?" She asks Tony, not looking up, "and what about you, with your injuries?"

"Not great on both counts," Tony mumbles. He unwraps a sandwich, takes a bite, and promptly devours the rest. It doesn't taste great, but his empty stomach is making itself heard.

"If you'd just rest for a couple of days," says Pepper. "You're running in circles and making things worse for yourself."

 _Damn it,_ thinks Tony, _why does Pepper have to be right about everything?_ He doesn't want to admit it, but the work's going nowhere and the noise in his head won't stop. He can hammer and solder and weld all he likes, but all the armor in the world won't protect him from the ticking time bombs embedded in his chest. "I've beefed up the suits a little, but the biggest problem is here," he says, pointing to the reactor.

Pepper frowns. "It's not giving you heavy metal poisoning again, is it?"

"No, nothing like that," Tony replies. _Only in my head sometimes._ "What I mean is, I can't fight Ross like this. A heatproof suit's one thing, but if he touches the reactor directly he'll melt me into a puddle."

"So don't fight him," says Pepper curtly.

"Seriously," Maya says, "you're outmatched."

Yeah, he knows. But he's got to put that fire out. The desperation must show on his face, because Pepper's face softens and she adds, "I mean, not now. You need the team together for this."

Together? It seems like a distant dream now that they're fractured beyond repair. Steve hates Tony, Natasha thinks he's an idiot, and Clint's just trying to save his own ass. "It's not just Ross," Tony insists, "anyone manages to hit me with a flamethrower at close range, I'm toast. I have to...I have to get rid of the reactor."

"Didn't you say that was impossible? Because of the shrapnel and the tissue damage?" Pepper says.

"Yeah, that's the problem. I don't know what to do," Tony huffs.

"Hmm," says Maya. The sound is familiar. Tony sometimes makes a sound like that when he's about to think of something brilliant or something utterly insane. "I have an idea."

"I'm all ears," says Tony.

"I could give you Extremis."

Pepper jerks her head in Maya's direction. "Extremis," she repeats, "you want to give Tony Extremis. The virus that makes everything explode."

"Not _everything_ ," Maya says defensively, "just most things. I had one rat that survived for weeks." Well, that just fills Tony with confidence.

"But all your human subjects died, didn't they?" Pepper questions.

Maya bites her lip. "They did. All but one of them. I didn't tell you this before, but...Killian tested it on himself, and it worked, it fucking worked." She grimaces. "Of course, that just made him more eager to throw more people into the testing chamber, but no one else survived the infusion. Killian said it was proof he was a 'superior organism'." She looks at Tony, eyes gleaming with determination. "I'm not suggesting you get in the chamber and roll the dice. You fixed one glitch back in Bern; you can help me fix the others. Once the formula's perfected, we can use it to rebuild your sternum. We just have to get Killian out of the way and retrieve my notes and samples."

Tony thinks it over. This actually doesn't sound like a bad plan. At any rate, it's better than no plan. He's still not sure how much he trusts Maya, but he doesn't have to trust her to use her. "Are you sure it'll work?" He asks.

"You remember how bad Killian's scoliosis was, don't you? I saw Extremis straighten his spine out right in front of me," Maya answers. "If we work out the glitches, Extremis will be able to regrow entire limbs. A little hole in your chest is nothing. I want to help you, Tony. If you think removing your reactor and fighting General McZombie is what you have to do, I'll help. But you have to help me, too."

"This is _such_ a bad idea," Pepper groans.

"I'm giving it better odds than the 'get the team back together' idea," Tony says.

It's decided, then. The three of them start planning Killian's assassination in earnest, mapping out their route to Florida, programming stealth drones, analyzing guard rotations, and looking for the best angle of attack. It's slow going—it'd be much easier if Tony had JARVIS at full power to help him—but they're making steady progress.

As they work, Pepper keeps an eye on the news and an ear on the police radio channels, watching for signs of trouble. One day, Christine Everhart appears on the monitor array, reporting from a city street somewhere with her microphone in hand. Her eyes dart around nervously as she speaks. She keeps looking over her shoulder.

"I'm here in Hell's Kitchen, home of the law firm Nelson and Murdock, where friends and coworkers of high-profile lawyer Matt Murdock reported him...reported him missing yesterday," she says haltingly. Tony's never seen her stammer before. "Over the last three weeks, Murdock has gained notoriety for speaking out against the government's controversial Control of Powered Humans act, and his associates are concerned that federal agents or another anti-superhero faction may have used force to silence him. If you've seen Matt Murdock or know where he's being held, please contact the offices of Nelson and Murdock as soon as possible. The Bugle Online will keep you updated on this story as it develops." She takes a breath and looks around again. She's distracted. Is she afraid? "In other news," Christine continues, "the mysterious vigilante who watches over Hell's Kitchen by night appears to have hung up his or her mask for good. Local residents have complained that crime is running rampant again, and the now-familiar sight of would-be perpetrators tied up and deposited at police stations is no more. The area's NYPD representative could not be reached for—"

There's a flash of movement at the side of the screen. A masked man with black gloves and a long, wicked knife runs up, grabs Christine's head, and cuts her throat in one swift motion. Arterial spray, too red, too vivid, covers the camera lens. As the killer flees, he yells out the rallying cry of Suit Watch:

"No more heroes!"

Tony gapes at the screen in mute horror. Later, much later, when all this is over, he'll discover a voicemail message on one of the phones he left behind at the tower. "Tony? It's me, Christine. I need your help. I'm in a lot of trouble for backing you, but I won't stop. This is too important. If you're out there, call me back. I need protection. I'm willing to pay."

And Tony will sit in the smoldering ruins of his home, grasping his phone with both hands and thinking about everyone he's lost and let down, and he will play the message over and over again and lean his head against the blasted stone and weep.


	34. The Great Game

It's Ross. Good god, the Titan is Ross.

Steve thinks this is something SHIELD needs to know.

Coulson raises his eyebrows. Steve sees him considering, calculating. "What makes you think that?" He asks.

"Just a feeling," Steve lies. "Just a feeling I had when I fought him up close and took a good look into his eyes."

"There’s more to the eyes than most people think," Coulson agrees. His own eyes are dull as pebbles in a dried-up stream. There's no light behind them. Coulson is sick, very sick, and he's decayed to the point where it's impossible to ignore. His skin's turned a mottled gray and he's too weak to walk for long. He does his work from a hospital bed surrounded by gently humming machines.

"Could the army have used some kind of classified medical technology on him?" Steve suggests, without volunteering more details. He wants to be helpful, but not too helpful. He can't let on that this wasn't his idea.

"I don't think so. We're keeping tabs on them, and they're years away from developing anything like this," says Coulson. "No, if you're right and the Titan really is Thaddeus Ross, then our reanimator is most likely the only man in the world with a proven track record of bringing back the dead." He taps slowly at a keyboard mounted on a rail by the side of his bed. A file appears on one of the monitors. _SHIELD PRISONER RECORD: SAMUEL STERNS_.

"He's the one who brought you back," Steve realizes.

Coulson nods. "And he didn't do a great job of it, as you can clearly see. We had him working with R&D to improve the formula, trying to get my body more—" he moves his gaunt hands like he's shaping a lump of clay—"more _together_. To stick to itself better. And of course, that was when General Ross used our own bureaucracy against us and stole Mr. Blue from under our noses."

Steve doesn't know why, but he suddenly gets the sense he's being watched by someone or something besides the multiple surveillance cameras stationed around the room. It feels like someone's hovering over his shoulder, looking, listening. This isn't the first time, either; he's been having this uncanny feeling on and off since he left the tower. It's probably stress, probably just his imagination. He takes a long breath and blinks hard a few times to clear his head.

"You really think it was Sterns? I don't know," Steve says, "I'm no scientist, but if he used the same formula on both of you, why'd you come back as yourself while Ross came back as a...?"

"A big, red, angry monster who eats people like chicken nuggets? R&D has some theories," Coulson answers. "After Loki killed me, some agents found my body and put me on ice right away. I was well preserved, and Fury pulled Sterns out of stasis to start working on me not long after. Time, I'm told, is a big factor in post-resurrectional integrity." He stops for breath before continuing. "In Ross's case, twelve days passed between his death and his funeral when the body was taken, and it was another two weeks after that before the Titan appeared. He probably decayed a lot more than I did in that interval. There's also the fact that Sterns has been missing, his actions unaccounted for, since you, Barton, and Romanoff rescued Stark from Ross back in March. He might have altered the formula in the intervening two months. Plus," Coulson adds finally, "let's not forget you and the Red Skull came out of the same bottle." He's wheezing now, out of breath from talking for too long. One of the machines starts beeping louder and higher for a moment before calming down again.

"But why," Steve wonders, and the watcher in his head traces over the shape of the word his mouth. "Why bring back Ross, of all people? Sterns didn't like the guy that much, and he doesn't seem like the loyal type either. If all he wanted was a human to experiment on, there must have been easier ways."

"Sterns is a megalomaniac," Coulson says bluntly, "he won't suffer being anyone's underling. He hated being forced to work for us, and he must have hated being on Ross's leash too. Maybe he wanted Ross alive again just so he could have him at his mercy."

"I don't think Ross is at anyone's mercy right now," says Steve, and then he has a thought. "Do you think he'll run out of steam on his own? Will he come down with the same, uh, condition that you have?"

"It's called Post-Resurrectional Disintegration Syndrome," Coulson replies, "and the scientists think it's unlikely. He seems a lot more robust than I ever was. In any case, we can't just sit around and wait for him to degenerate. We have to contain him _now_ , but it's been a real headache trying to figure out the best way to do that."

"And you think this guy can help," says Steve, pointing to the mug shot of Sterns on Coulson's computer screen.

"He's the best lead we've got so far." Coulson closes the file and turns to look at Steve. "Answer me one thing, Captain," he says.

"What's that?"

"In your opinion, is there any chance—any chance at all—that Stark and Sterns are working together? Could they have teamed up to crash the General's funeral and steal his body?"

"What? No!" Steve blurts reflexively. Tony and _Sterns_? It's almost too awful to contemplate. "Why would you think that?"

"I don't, not necessarily. I'm just mapping out the possibilities. Look at the facts: Sterns was an escaped prisoner without a dollar to his name. He definitely didn't have the means to hire professional terrorists. Tony Stark, meanwhile, had both the funds and the connections. Stark and Sterns both held a grudge against Ross, and both stood to benefit from working together: Stark gets to show the world once again that he isn't a man to be fucked with, and Sterns gets a test subject and a chance to turn the tables on his captor."

"But we fought Ross, the Titan," says Steve, "and Tony barely got away with his life. Why would he agree to give Ross so much power? Why didn't they recognize each other?"

"Maybe Stark didn't know what would result from Sterns's experiments. Or maybe he did, and he set up the battle to deceive you, and his plan got away from him," Coulson says.

Well, yes. Tony's plans have been getting away from him since day one. Steve doesn't know what to think now; he was convinced Tony was innocent when he hung up the phone after talking to him, but Coulson's joining the dots in a way Steve never would have seen on his own. That's why he's one of SHIELD's best, Steve reminds himself. That's why Fury refused to let him rest.

For a while, Steve stays quiet. He rifles through his memories and tries to piece together the things Tony said and did after that fateful morning he touched down on the rooftop smelling of blood and ashes. He thinks back to Tony holing up in his workshop all day and locking the doors. He thinks back to his confession, their confrontation, and the stifling tension that wrapped the tower like a snake and squeezed the life right out of it. No one was happy with what Tony had done then, and so no one thought to ask where he was when he disappeared for hours or days. A knot forms in Steve's chest when he thinks about the secrecy, the account books, and the massive chunk of missing cash.

Then he reaches back further and remembers how Tony came home a broken shell of a man, so mad with fear and sick with nightmares he was convinced that Steve wasn't real, that he'd dreamed his rescue and was dreaming still, that an invisible poison was creeping through his veins and slowly killing him. Steve remembers how the fog seemed to lift that morning, and he knows for sure now that Coulson is wrong.

"Tony's not responsible for Arlington," he says firmly. "Coulson, you didn't see him after we got him back. He was a goddamn mess. Couldn't sleep, couldn't speak, some days he couldn't even cry. Tony wanted Ross dead, he wanted to be free from him once and for all. I just don't see him wanting to bring him back after everything he went through."

"Fair enough. I guess if he did do it, he'd want to claim the credit and gloat about it," Coulson hums. "But whether or not Stark was involved, he remains a danger to himself and the rest of the world. He was incapacitated after the fight on Long Island—why didn't you bring him in?"

Steve flinches. He failed his mission. He hopes he didn't fail Tony in the process. “I made the offer. He refused."

Coulson’s gaze is steady, level. “So why didn’t you bring him in?"

He doesn't think Coulson understands. “Tony's spent too much of his life imprisoned by people who just...who just _do_ things to him without his consent. I'll be damned if I'm going to be one of them," Steve says. "This has to happen on his terms or not at all."

“Things tend to blow up and people tend to die when we let Tony Stark do things on his terms," Coulson notes.

Steve sighs. "Yes. I know."

"I don't think he's a bad guy," Coulson reminds Steve gently, "but he's unpredictable. We don't know what he'll do next. The sooner we intervene, the better."

"What will you do when you have him," Steve asks, "what's this procedure you have in mind?"

Coulson shakes his head slowly. "It's better you don't know."

Steve still has a hundred questions. He picks the most important one. "Will he be his old self again once you're through with him?"

"We'll do the best we can. But the thing about trauma is, you can never really go back," says Coulson, with a haunted look on his face.

"Blind faith. You're asking me for blind faith here," mutters Steve.

"I want to help Tony Stark," Coulson wheezes insistently. "Fury and Hill would rather seal up him in a stasis tube and be done with it. Whatever you're going to do, Captain, you should do it fast, because I'm running out of time." He looks down. "Five operations, two transplants, twelve transfusions. My body knows it's not supposed to be alive," he comments.

His voice sounds flat and indifferent, just like Tony's did before. Christ, everyone around Steve is so okay with dying, and Steve is not okay with that. "We'll find a way. Don't give up hope," he says, blinking away the salt stinging at his eyes. "We'll catch Sterns. We'll make him fix you."

"It's too late. I have no doubt we'll find him and use his knowledge to contain the Titan—SHIELD will keep the world safe like we always do—but it's too late for me." Coulson closes his eyes and sinks into his pillow. "Just promise me you won't let him turn me into a monster too," he whispers.

He's fallen asleep. The machines seem satisfied, beeping steadily in time with his breathing. A message from Commander Hill flashes up on one of his computer screens: _MR. BLUE CONNECTION NOTED. WILL FOLLOW UP. GET SOME REST._

Steve gives Coulson's hand a squeeze before getting up to leave. He can still feel those ghostly, faraway eyes on him, and he decides to hit the gym on the Helicarrier to try to shake it off. An audience of junior agents gathers to watch him work up a sweat, but at least these are human eyes. At least with them he can stare back and know.

A few days later, Hill's investigations turn up something. Steve reports to the forward deck for the briefing, those strange eyes following him all the way.

Natasha's the first to notice him. She looks up from the computer console she's working on and nods. "Hey."

"Steve," Clint greets him with a wide grin, "it's been a while."

"Too long," Steve replies. He wasn't expecting to see them here today. This feels right, somehow, the three of them together in the same room again, but at the same time it feels wrong because they're only half the team. "Where's Commander Hill?"

"She went to check on Phil," says Clint, just as Hill steps onto the deck. Clint's body goes tense and anxious as he scans the lines of her face, relaxing after he doesn't see what he was afraid he'd see. "How's Coulson doing?" He asks her.

"Stable for now, but we don’t know how much time he has left. The sooner we secure Samuel Sterns, the better," Hill answers.

"What have you found?" Natasha asks.

Hill passes a stack of tablets around. "Messages," she says, "coded messages intercepted from an online dating site.

Clint’s laugh sounds forced as he quips, "I guess evil mad scientists need love too."

"Clever," Natasha remarks, "using someone else's servers so that your own can't be traced. It's more obscure than email, too, but SHIELD's eyes see everything. He didn't count on that."

Steve pages through the report on the tablet. It's full of garbled letters, numbers, punctuation, and shapes, all of them constantly shifting and morphing. A few actual words appear here and there, but most of it is gibberish. "This is still encoded," he says.

"It's a rolling cipher," says Hill, like that's supposed to mean something to Steve. "We're decoding in real time. It's the same code Sterns invented and used to coordinate his criminal activities before we captured him. The cryptographic signature pinged our search algorithms, and it matches the earlier correspondence samples we have on file. The technicians have confirmed the sender is using the handle 'Mr. Blue'."

Clint snorts. "Isn't this guy supposed to be a genius? Why would he use the same code and the same alias that got him caught the first time?"

"He's intelligent, yes, but he’s also arrogant enough to think no one would ever crack his cipher," Hill replies. "And he probably thinks he'll be able to evade us if we find him."

Natasha smiles. "Big mistake."

"How long until we figure out what he’s saying?" Clint asks.

"I'm more interested in who he's saying it _to_. It could give us another lead to investigate," Natasha says. She taps on her tablet. "Do we have both sides of the conversation here?"

Hill nods. "Yes. The technicians are working on decoding his correspondent’s alias, too."

"So we just have to sit and wait?" Steve says. "Can't we do anything to help the codebreakers?"

Clint laughs at him, but not unkindly. "It's not the enigma machine, Cap."

Steve stares at the shifting forest of glyphs on his tablet and thinks, _no, it really isn't_. That was a code for a simpler time, a time when a set of rotors and a pencil and paper were all you needed unlock a secret and undo an empire. A time when the answers were clear-cut and easy, when the Allies were good and the Axis was evil and heroes were thick on the ground. When you never had to think twice about whether you were doing the right thing, because in your heart—in your good, shining heart—you just _knew_. Or at least, it was easy to believe you knew. It's the same thing, isn't it?

Steve wishes he knew.

Moments later, all of the computer consoles on the deck start flashing and blaring all at once. There's a photo, a name, a set of coordinates, and a huge banner reading _INCIDENT DETECTED, CASUALTY RISK EXTREME, ASSET VALUE MEDIUM_. Coulson's shown this to Steve before; it's a computer program that scans the globe for potential powered recruits for SHIELD and sounds an alarm when one of them's in trouble. Before anyone can react, though, the sound cuts off and a stream of data rushes past on each screen. _MEDIUM_ turns to _LOW_ , then _ZERO_ , and everything goes back to normal. The alert's gone as quickly as it came.

Steve looks around. No one seems bothered by the disturbance. "What just happened?" He says.

Hill waves a dismissive hand at the nearest screen. "Just a blip in the system. Happens almost every day. It's pretty trigger happy with the alerts, but sometimes it misjudges the asset's power level. We had a lot of false alarms at first, a lot of agents mobilized for nothing, but the system's getting better at filtering out irrelevant incidents now."

"So that guy wasn't really in danger?" Steve asks.

"Oh, he was," says Natasha evenly, "but he wasn't important enough for us to do anything about it."

"But," says Steve, "it said the risk was extreme."

Hill looks up. "And?"

Steve just stares. He can sense the other agents on the deck watching him with wariness. Eyes all around him, eyes in his head, a ghostly gaze he can't meet.

Hill's face looks soft and sympathetic, but her posture's all stone. "Captain, not every incident is like the one you faced at Long Island. Those guys with the ice powers and the wings were top-tier, but a lot of other powered people's mutations aren't nearly as useful. Having the ability to sense when someone's taking a picture of you, or to blow bioluminescent snot bubbles out of your nose—that's not exactly what we're looking for in an asset," she explains.

"They're useless, so you let them die," Steve says flatly. He feels like the breath's been sucked out of him, but he shouldn't be surprised. SHIELD isn't a charity, he knows that. He knows they wouldn't save anyone they couldn't use. _It's a part of the game we all have to face up to_ , Coulson told him once, _and you can let it eat you up inside, or you can suit up and do your job and accept that everything has a price_.

Hill's feeding him the same line. "We're spies, not peacekeepers, and we have finite resources. You know we can't intervene in every incident as it happens."

"We can't save everyone," murmurs Clint, a half-hearted attempt at an apology.

Steve knows they're right, but he'll damned if he doesn't want to punch something right now. Maybe break a door or two. It must be written all over his body, too, because everyone in the room seems to back away from him a little, and the expanding space around him crowds with eyes that he can't see.

The tension breaks when a technician sidles gingerly up to Hill and squeaks, "Commander, we're almost done cracking another block of the cipher, but we don't know how much text it'll actually decrypt."

"Thank you, Agent. Keep at it," says Hill, and the technician scurries off.

Steve looks at his tablet again. A handful of the everchanging letters have stabilized, but the text is still a long way from intelligible. Line breaks are starting to appear in the huge block of gibberish as it splits up into what he assumes are individual messages. The ones from Sterns are tagged 'Mr. Blue', and the replies are from—

Steve frowns. "Who's 'Red Dragon'?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is ‘resurrectional’ even a word? Well, it is now.


End file.
